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The Works of Leonard Merrick 


CONRAD IN QUEST 
OF HIS YOUTH 


The Works of 

LEON ARD MERRICK 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH. With 
an Introduction by Sib J. M. Barrie. 

WHEN LOVE FLIES OUT O’ THE WINDOW. 
With an Introduction by Sir William Robert- 
son Nicoll. 

THE QUAINT COMPANIONS. With an Intro- 
duction by H. G. Wells. 

THE POSITION OF PEGGY HARPER. With 
an Introduction by Sir Arthur Pinero. 

THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN and 
other Stories. With an Introduction by W. J. 
Locke. 

THE WORLDLINGS. With an Introduction by 
Neil Munro. 

THE ACTOR-MANAGER. With an Introduction 
by W. D. Howells. 

CYNTHIA. W T ith an Introduction by Maurice 
Hewlett. 

ONE MAN’S VIEW. With an Introduction by 
Granville Barker. 

THE MAN WHO W T AS GOOD. With an Intro- 
duction by J. K. Prothero. 

A CHAIR ON THE BOULEVARD. With an 
Introduction by A. Neil Lyons. 

THE HOUSE OF LYNCH. With an Introduc- 
tion by G. K. Chesterton. 

WHILE PARIS LAUGHED : Being Pranks and 
Passions of the Poet Tricotrin. 


NEW YORK 

E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY 


CONRAD IN QUEST 
OF HIS YOUTH 


By LEONARD MERRICK 

¥ 

WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY 

SIR JAMES M. BARRIE 



NEW YORK 

E. P. DUTTON AND COMPANY 

681 FIFTH AVENUE 


Copyright, 1919, 

BY E. P. DUTTON AND COMPANY 




c. 






All Rights Reserved 






(/ d 


The First American Definitive Edition, with Introduction 
by Sir J. M. Barrie, limited to 1550 copies 
fof which only 1500 were for sale.) 

Published April 5th, 1919. Out of print May 1st, 1919. 

Second and cheaper Edition, May 10, 1919. 

Third edition, June, 1919. 

Fourth edition, July, 1919. 

Fifth edition, July, 1919. 

Sixth edition, September, 1919 
Seventh edition, November, 1919 
Eighth edition, November, 1919 
Ninth edition, November, 1919 
Tenth edition, November, 1919 
Eleventh edition, November, 1919 
Twelfth edition, November, 1919 
Thirteenth edition, December, 1919 
Fourteenth edition, December, 1919 
Fifteenth edition, December 1919 
Sixteenth edition, December, 1919 
Seventeenth edition, December, 1919 
Eighteenth edition, December, 1919 
Nineteenth edition, December, 1919 


Printed in the United States of America 


INTRODUCTORY NOTE 

A disquieting sentimental journey would 
be down the obituary column of The Times 
in search of the novel-readers who have gone 
and died without ever knowing of the sentimen- 
tal quest of Conrad. They would be the great 
majority, it seems, and we may drop a sigh for 
them or a “Serve you right,” according to their 
opportunities. Incomplete lives. 

It is from such reflections by a number of Mr. 
Merrick’s fellow- writers that this edition of his 
books has sprung, of which Conrad in Quest of 
His Youth is the first volume. Disagreeing 
among themselves on most matters, probably 
even on the value of each other to the State, they 
are agreed on this, that Mr. Merrick is one of 
the flowers of their calling; and they have, per- 
haps, an uneasy feeling that if the public will 
not take his works to their hearts there must be 
something wrong with the popularity of their 
own. “Unless you like Merrick also, please not 
to like me.” Or we may put it more benignantly 
in this way, that as you, the gentle reader, have 
been good to us, we want to be good to you, and 


INTRODUCTORY NOTE 


yi 

so we present to you, with our compliments, just 
about the best thing we have got — an edition of 
Mr. Merrick’s novels. There have been many 
“author’s editions,” but never, so far as I know, 
one quite like this, in which the “author” is not 
the writer himself but his contemporaries, who 
have entirely “engineered” the edition them- 
selves and have fallen over each other, so to 
speak, in this desire to join in the honour of writ- 
ing the prefaces. Such is the unique esteem in 
which Mr. Merrick is held by his fellow-work- 
ers. For long he has been the novelists’ novelist, 
and we give you again the chance to share him 
with us; you have been slow to take the previ- 
ous chances, and you may turn away again, but 
in any case he will still remain our man. 

I speak, of course, only for myself, but there 
is no doubt to my mind that Conrad in Quest of 
His Youth is the best sentimental journey that 
has been written in this country since the publi- 
cation of the other one; so gay it is, so sad, of 
such an alluring spirit, so firm a temper, I know 
no novel by any living Englishman except a score 
or so of Mr. Hardy’s, that I would rather have 
written. I am not certain, however, that had the 
attractive choice been given me I would not first 
have “knocked off” some of Mr. Merrick’s short 
stories — particularly the Parisian ones of which 


INTRODUCTORY NOTE 


vii 


Mr. Locke will have something to say — to make 
sure of my fortune in case a street accident, say, 
should end me abruptly. In some of the other 
books the women, at least, are more elaborately 
drawn, and there is a genuine contact with life — 
Mr. Merrick with his coat off — but if, like the 
shipwrecked lady in a horrible tale, I were given 
a moment to decide which of my children I should 
save, I would on the whole keep grip of Conrad 
and the short stories and let the other babies go. 
Several other authors would, I am sure, see to 
it that while they themselves floated, Cynthia 
did not sink, and I can picture Mr. Howells div- 
ing recklessly after The Actor-Manager . 

Of my free will nothing would induce me to 
give away the story of Conrad in Quest of His 
Youth to those who are about to read it for the 
first time. I have just re-read it, and it is as 
fresh as yesterday’s shower; time, I am sure, is 
not going to dim it ; it does so effectually what we 
should all have liked to try to do with it had we 
wakened some glad morn with the idea, that no 
one need ever seek to do it again. We must all 
henceforth try something else. And yet it has 
been in existence for many years and compara- 
tively few people know of it. The libraries 
might issue it to the readers of six a week as fresh 
from the press, with a fair chance of not being 


INTRODUCTORY NOTE 


iviii 

found out. The same might be said of Mr. Hud- 
son’s The Purple Land, another of the choicest 
things of our latter-day literature. Yet the pub- 
lic does not back away from all good things even 
when the maker is alive; what makes it so shy of 
these? 

I have heard Mr. Merrick called a pessimist, 
and readers are not prepared, as a rule, to spend 
joyous hours with pessimists. But compared to 
many of his contemporaries he is quite a gay 
dog, laughter shining constantly in his pages and 
a fine serenity; instead of setting forth to make 
his characters miserable he is so much in sym- 
pathy with them that I can think of no novelist 
who spends more time — it is almost divertingly 
obvious — in seeking a happy way out for them. 
It is as if he were fighting for some comfort for 
himself, as no doubt he is. He is not always 
successful, the stern artist in him forbidding, but 
never were characters who, if they go hopelessly 
wrong, have brought it more certainly on them- 
selves. The author is ever nudging them in the 
right direction, and never gives up hope until the 
end. This must be one reason why his people 
are so curiously alive. 

There is no such thing as a plot in his books. 

“In tragic life, God wot. 

No villain need be! Passions spin the plot/' 


INTRODUCTORY NOTE 


IX 


and, indeed, he is a writer of comedies always, 
tho’ tragedy lurks at all the corners. He has not 
found plot in life, and so it cannot come into 
his books; if he introduced it he would certainly 
be blown up by it. But there is no one with a 
greater art of telling a story, if that art consists 
in making us for ever wonder what we are to 
find on the next page. There are a hundred sur- 
prises in Conrad . Even when you have trav- 
elled with him far and know precisely in what 
circumstances he is next to be placed, shut the 
book and ask yourself what is to happen and 
you will find you don’t know in the least ; twenty 
lines from the close you have no idea how the 
story is to end. This is the aim — perhaps the 
sole aim — of the sensational writer, but he is sat- 
isfied if he has tricked us, and we lay his tale 
aside, smiling at the clever trick which is no trick 
as soon as he shows his hand. In the story of 
character such as Conrad, there is an absence of 
all cheap guile; the end is merely foreseen by 
the author, and not by us, because he knows his 
people better than we do. When we come to the 
end we must feel that there was no other, that 
he has merely discovered the truth. Nothing is 
quite so fascinating, in novel-reading, as trying, 
as it were, to make up on an author who keeps 
one step in front in this way; and it doubtless 


INTRODUCTORY NOTE 


accounts for the lady who accepted the hand of 
a publisher on condition that he told her, as a 
wedding gift, how a certain tale, then running in 
his magazine, was to end. Very likely this is 
how all publishers get married. 

There is, however, one way in which Mr. 
Merrick is such a failure that the very meanest 
of us can point the finger of scorn at him. If 
he has a mission it is to warn us against author- 
ship and the tawdry glamour of the stage. Could 
he gather all young men and maids around him 
he would tell them not to be authors, and if they 
must be authors, not to seek their characters 
among those who follow that bitter profession; 
as for the stage, he knows the seamy side of it 
as it never has been known to any other novel- 
ist, and he casts the light of pitiless day on it 
and stabs it and “wriggles his knife in the 
wound”; there can be no glamour in the stage 
for you after you have read the books of Mr. 
Merrick. Obviously he hopes so, and you are a 
dullard indeed, if, after a dose of him, you do 
not see that the game is up, that you should 
burn your pen and avoid the stage-door for ever 
more. But after you have all fled the two 
damned callings, I see one figure stealing back 
to them, raging at them, but faithful to them to 


INTRODUCTORY NOTE 


xi 


the end, loving the one as his life’s work and 
wrapt hopelessly in the glamour of the other. 
Mr. Merrick is fighting his temperament in all 
his books and it always wins. 


J. M. Barbie. 



CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS 

YOUTH 






) 




















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•• 









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» 

























CHAPTER I 


“How we laughed as we laboured together! 

How well I remember, to-day. 

Our 'outings’ in midsummer weather. 

Our winter delights at the play! 

We were not over-nice in our dinners; 

Our ‘rooms’ were up rickety stairs; 

But if hope be the wealth of beginners. 

By Jove, we were all millionaires! 

Our incomes were very uncertain. 

Our prospects were equally vague; 

Yet the persons I pity who know not the city. 

The beautiful city of Prague!” 

If you can imagine the lonely shade of the 
man who wrote that verse returning to Literary 
London — where there is no longer a young man 
who could write it, and merely a few grey-beards 
are left still to understand what it means — I say, 
if you can imagine this, you may appreciate the 
condition of Conrad when he went back to the 
quartier Latin. 

Conrad was no less sad, his disappointment 
was no less bitter, the society that he had sought 
so eagerly was no less alien to him. But while 

i 


2 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 


he commanded bocks for all, and mourned the 
change that left him desolate, the melancholy of 
his mood was a subtler thing — for he realised 
that the profoundest change was in himself. 

Something should be said of the longings that 
had brought him back to the Quarter — longings 
in one hour tender, and in the next tempestuous 
— something hinted of the regretful years during 
which his limbs reposed in an official chair while 
his mind flew out of the official window to places 
across the sea where he had been young, and san- 
guine, and infinitely glad. To a score of places 
it flew, but to none perhaps so often as Paris, 
where he had studied art in the days when he 
meant to move the world. 

Of course the trouble with the man was that 
he wanted to be nineteen again, and didn’t recog- 
nise it. We do not immediately recognise that 
our youth is going from us ; it recedes stealthily, 
like our hair. For a long time he had missed the 
zest, the sparkle, the buoyancy from life, but for 
the flatness that distressed him he blamed the 
Colony instead of his age. He confused the 
emotions of his youth with the scenes where he 
had felt them, and yearned to make sentimental 
journeys, fancying that to revisit the scenes 
would be to recover the emotions. 

Because the office rewarded his mental flights 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 3 

ungenerously he was restrained by one of those 
little realities which vulgar novelists observe and 
which are so out of place in novels — “sordid” 
considerations, like ways and means. Give us 
lots of Blood, and the dummy over the dashing 
highwayman’s shoulder I If you call him a “cav- 
alier” it’s Breezy Romance. 

And then his Aunt Tryphena died, and left 
him everything. 

At once he was lord of himself. Liberated 
by “everything,” he sailed for Home, and sa- 
vouring the knowledge that he was free to rove 
where he listed, lingered in London. Some 
months afterwards — when the crocuses were 
perking behind the Park rails, and Piccadilly was 
abloom with the first millinery of spring — he 
travelled to Dover, en route for the Past. 

And lilac was everywhere — Paris was all lilac 
and sunshine. He drove to an hotel on the left 
bank. To behold it again! The grotesque 
clock under the glass shade, and the clothes pegs 
that were too large to hang clothes on, the scarlet 
edredon that he would throw on the floor before 
he got into bed, the sight of these things was 
sweet to him as the welcome of a woman is sweet 
after a passage made on a slow steamer to reach 
her side. 

He said to the femme de chambre — she was 


4 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 


elderly and she was plain; pretty chambermaids 
are all employed in farcical comedies; but she 
was a femme de chambre, and he felt eommunica- 
tiye. He said, “La derniere fois que j’etais a 
Paris, j’etais un gamin.” She smiled and gave a 
shrug: “Monsieur n’est qu’un enfant aujourd’- 
hui.” What English servant would have earned 
that tip? . . . Oh, yes! English servants are all 
too truthful. 

When he had scattered his things about the 
room, he strode out to seek the little restaurant 
where the dinners had been so good, and the com- 
pany had been so witty years before. Well, it 
had vanished. Perhaps he wasn’t surprised, but 
he loitered wistfully in the street from which the 
faded sign had gone, and at the flashy establish- 
ment where he dined instead, the plats lacked 
flavour. 

By-and-by he sauntered along the Boul’ Mich’. 
While he walked he perceived that he had ceased 
to look about him, and was again looking back. 
The sigh of names that had been long forgotten 
was in the plaintive night, and the air was thick 
with echoes. He moved along the lamp-lit 
boulevard seeing ghosts, and to the right and left 
the heedless faces of the fleshly crowd were 
strange to him. All strange to him. This was 
the first impediment in his road. 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 5 


“Gay Paree” is gayest in the doggerel of the 
English music-halls; its gaiety is declining fast, 
but its beauty is fadeless. No city goes to bed 
more worldly, and wakes up looking more inno- 
cent. At six o’clock next day, when they began 
to beat carpets, and Conrad flung the windows 
wide, some of the happiness of the wakened cap- 
ital’s simplicity was breathed into his heart. And 
his fervour, and his purse, overcame the first im- 
pediment. Within a week of his arrival he had 
already been called “Mon cher.” 

He was called “Mon cher,” and other things. 
He puffed his Caporal at the Cafe Vachette, 
and found that he had lost his relish for French 
tobacco ; he sat among the cards and the dominoes 
at the Cafe d’Harcourt — bought carnations and 
ecrevisses from the pedlars’ baskets for Germaine 
and Suzanne; and Germaine and Suzanne 
proved witless compared with what their mothers 
had been, and he noted — not without some slight 
pride, for we are all patriotic abroad — that 
though the art of tying a veil had been granted 
to French women, the pretty features had been 
granted to the English. 

It was now that the disappointment fell, now 
that he cried: — 

“ "Oh for one hour of youthful joy! 

Give back my twentieth spring !’ M 


6 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 

The ardour of the students left him chilly, the 
rodomontades of his compatriots sounded merely 
stupid. They were all going to sacrifice them- 
selves for an ideal, all going to England to paint 
persistently the class of work that England did 
not want. “No concessions” was their battle cry. 
Youth can never believe that it will live to make 
concessions. Your adept finds nowhere so 
scathing a critic as your novice. 

O beautiful time when he, too, had imagined 
he was born with a mission! Bright morning 
when he had vapoured with the vainest! This 
afternoon the Rapsodie Anglaise was played to 
duller ears. The freaks seemed joyless, and he 
said the aspirations were “out of drawing.” He 
was not sure that it was of immense importance 
whether one painted well, or ill — whether one 
painted at all. There were more useful things 
to be done in the world. He did not w T ish to do 
them harm, but he suggested that they were 
there. Then the audience hurled passages from 
the preface to “Mademoiselle de Maupin” at him 
— without acknowledgment — pelting him with 
the paragraphs full of shoes and potatoes until 
he was dizzy, and perhaps a little shaken. After 
all, when one has failed to pluck the grapes it is 
easy to proclaim that potatoes are more nourish- 
ing. On the whole he was scarcely a success in 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 7 

the Quarter — a success of curiosity at most — and 
he won no converts to a theory (advanced in one 
of the most serious of the cafes) that the great- 
est services to modern art were rendered by the 
writers of ladies’ fashion articles. 

“They are the Teachers who make the widest 
school,” he urged. “Under their influence the 
fairest work of Nature takes an added loveliness 
— to them we owe the enticements of the tea- 
gown, the soul-compelling whisper of the silk 
petticoat. What other apostle of Beauty can 
hope to shed beauty in every home? Into how 
many homes do you suppose your ballades will 
go?” He was chatting to a poet. But the poet 
became diffuse. 

Conrad returned to his hotel not wholly dis- 
satisfied with the impression he had made upon 
the poet. At the corner of the rue des E coles 
he had one or two vigorous thoughts concerning 
the vanity of versification which he wished had 
occurred to him earlier, and when he had lit the 
lamp he began to write. You can know very 
little about him if you are surprised to be told 
that what he wrote was verse. It was of course 
a monody to his Boyhood. 

As his age has not been stated, and he had be- 
gun to deplore it so much, it may be as well at 


8 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 


this point to say that he was thirty-seven. A less 
venerable figure than you have pictured him, 
perhaps, despite the chambermaid. There were, 
however, hours when he felt a hundred. 

He felt a hundred towards the close of his 
stay in Paris. He had resolved to go back to 
London, but it had few associations for him, and 
he packed his portmanteaux drearily. On the 
evening before he crossed, his thoughts flashed 
to a little English watering-place where he had 
spent a summer when he was still proud of wear- 
ing trousers. He recalled the moment of his 
invitation, the thrill of its unexpectedness. A 
nursery, and four children: three of them his 
cousins, departing for the seaside next day, in 
fancy already on the sands. And one of the trio 
had exclaimed — was it Ted who began it? — one 
of the trio had exclaimed: “Wouldn’t it be jolly 
if Con could come too?” He was “Con.” He 
was Con hanging over the banisters breathless 
five minutes later, for Nina, and ’Gina, and Ted 
had descended to the drawing-room tumultu- 
ously to prefer a petition to “Ma.” 

“Ma says there wouldn’t be beds enough,” 
they announced with long faces, mounting the 
stairs; and then he stammered that he had “ex- 
pected there’d be something like that,” and they 
danced round him in a ring, crying: “We made 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 9 

it up. You’re to come with us if you may — 
you’re to go home and ask!” 

The nursery was very clear to him. He saw 
the gleeful group on the threshold again, and 
the bright pattern of the wall-paper. He could 
see the open window with the radiant sky across 
the roofs. 

So they had all gone to the seaside together — 
he, and Nina, and ’Gina, and Ted, in charge of 
the governess; and the house had turned out to 
be a school called “Mowbray I^pdge,” but the 
boys were away. Jack, the dog, had been lost 
on the journey — and killed the schoolmaster’s 
chickens when he was restored. The rows there 
used to be with the master! Mr. Boultbee — that 
was his name. There was a yellow field blaz- 
ing with dandelions, Conrad remembered, and 
behind the shadow of the fir trees, apples 
swayed. He remembered the garden of Hose 
Villa next door, and the afternoon when Mary 
Page kissed her hand over the fence. Mary 
Page! On a sudden how close it was — all ex- 
cept her features — her hat trimmed with blue, 
and her dangling plaits, and the vibration of the 
time. Ted and he were enslaved by her equally 
— without bitterness — and used to show each 
other the love-letters she wrote to them both after 
they went home. And oh! how they longed to 


10 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 


be back, and oh, the plans they made, which never 
fructified, for husbanding their pocket-money 
and taking her by surprise one brilliant morning! 

“Qu’est-ce que vous m’offrez, monsieur? 
Payez-moi un bock, hein?” 

“No,” said Conrad, starting, “run along and 
play, there’s a good child!” These memories 
had come to him at the Bal Bullier, and the band 
was banging, and the petticoats were whirling, 
and a young lady was asking to be refreshed. 


CHAPTER II 


She pouted a protest at him, and whisked into 
the dance. He observed that she had graces, and 
heaved a sigh for the time when it would have 
been piquant to brush the pout away. To-night 
it would be tasteless. “Kissing a cocotte is like 
eating tinned salmon,” said Conrad to himself 
regretfully, and went to the vestiaire for his over- 
coat. 

The interruption had jarred him, but it was 
not till he had stepped over to the boulevard 
Saint-Michel that he knew that he had left the 
ball-room for the purpose of resuming his rev- 
erie undisturbed. In the wide gloom of the thor- 
oughfare’s wrong end, his interest in the projects 
of five-and-twenty years ago was again so keen 
that he grieved to think they had been fruitless. 
Improving on history, he permitted the boys who 
were boys no more to amass the sovereign that 
they coveted, and, giving his fancy rein, lived 
through the glorious day which had never 
dawned. He tried very hard to be fair to Ted! 
after Mary had welcomed them, though to pre- 
11 


12 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 


vent the conversation becoming a dualogue irked 
him a good deal. In moments he discovered that 
he was talking to her rather well for his age, and 
then he corrected himself with loving artistry. 
But he could seldom find it in his heart to cor- 
rect Mary, and she said the prettiest things in 
the world. He came back to the present, swim- 
ming with tenderness for the little maiden of his 
retrospect. It shocked him to reflect that she 
must be about thirty-eight if she lived still, and 
might even have a marriageable daughter. The 
pathos of the marriageable daughter indeed over- 
whelmed him. He had reached the Taverne du 
Pantheon, and taking a seat, he pictured him- 
self waking to realise that he was only twelve 
years old and that all events subsequent to the 
epoch had been a dream. 

The October air was bleak when he crossed 
on the morrow, and the deck rolled to meet the 
splashes of the waves. The idea of revisiting 
the watering-place — and the idea had germi- 
nated — attracted him less forcibly as his chair 
played see-saw with the taffrail, but he remem- 
bered that he had often been advised by adver- 
tisements “not to risk infection from foreigners, 
when he could winter in sunny Sweetbay, the 
fairest spot in England.” The fact that it had 
a reputation as a winter resort encouraged him 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 13 


somewhat, and by the time he saw the lamps of 
Charing Cross he felt adventurous again. He 
also admired a girl on the platform. “There’s 
nothing like an Englishwoman for beauty,” he 
said; and the girl exclaimed: “Oh, I’ve left my 
little fur in my grip, right there !” 

He fulfilled his programme the next morning. 
The drowsy station of Sweetbay seemed to him 
larger than of yore as he glanced about him, but 
he did not stop to gather information in the mat- 
ter. His bag was in the fly, and he was rattled 
to an hotel where the manager appeared sur- 
prised to see him. Although his sensations on 
the boat had left him with no insistent longing 
for a room with a sea- view, he accepted one with- 
out complaint, and learning that luncheon waS 
being served, descended to where three despon- 
dent-looking visitors were scattered along an 
acre of tables. Evidently people continued to 
go abroad in spite of the advice. However, he 
had not come to Sweetbay for society. 

It was a neat and decorous little town await- 
ing him when he sallied forth from the hotel. 
Everything was very clean, very tidy. The 
pink-paved sidewalks, bordered by trees, glis- 
tened like coral; the snug villas, enclosed by 
euonymus hedges trimmed to precision, had a 
fresh and wholesome air, an air that made him 


14 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 


think of honey soap and good rice puddings. He 
backed before the walls of the Parish Church. 
A play-bill of the Rosary Theatre, near by, 
seemed an anachronism, and even as he recalled 
Sweetbay, it had been content with Assembly 
Rooms. On a hoarding he saw a poster of the 
Pier Pavilion — the pavilion was an innovation 
too. In the High Street photographs of some 
popular actors had invaded a shop window, and 
he was struck by the extraordinary resemblance 
they bore to one another — all wearing on the 
brow the frown of intellectuality, and carefully 
disordered hair. The Town Hall was a land- 
mark. He murmured Matthew Arnold’s line: 
“Expressive merely of the impotence of the 
architect to express anything,” but the unparal- 
leled ugliness of the building warmed him with 
recollections. He branched to the left, as he 
used to branch to the left when he carried Mary’s 
bathing shoes, and surrendering himself to sen- 
timent unreservedly now swung joyously for 
Eden. 

And from this point landmarks flocked thick 
and fast. The way began to climb the hill, the 
hill began to show the boughs, the boughs began 
to veil the road, the road began to woo the lane, 
the lane began to near the house, and — like the 
old woman’s pig — Conrad got over the stile. 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 15 

And “Mowbray Lodge” was still painted on 
the gate! It was all so wonderfully the same 
for a moment in the shade behind the fir trees — 
so wonderfully — that he felt tearful. The 
scene had stood so still that there seemed some- 
thing unreal in his returning here a man. Again 
he saw the slender columns of the long veranda, 
and the summer-house on which the weather- 
cock still perched. He looked, and looked wide- 
eyed, at a faded door — not green, not blue — and 
knew suddenly that behind that door there 
should be currant bushes and a tangle of nas- 
turtium, and hens prinking on the path. His 
soul embraced the scene. And yet — and yet it 
was not the features that had lived in his mind 
that moved him most. The magic lay in the per- 
vasive hush, and in a gust of the fir trees’ smell, 
which he had forgotten until it swept him breath- 
less across the years. 

Yes, there seemed something unreal in his 
standing here a man. His spirit was listening 
— and he knew that it was listening — for calls 
from children who had grown to middle-age 
now; his gaze was waiting — even he knew that 
it was waiting — for the rush of childish figures 
which the scene should yield. 

Presently he sought the space where they had 
played. But the Field of the Cloth of Gold was 


16 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 


transformed. Where the dandelions had spread 
their splendour for Mary he saw a market-gar- 
den, and the sun that had made a halo for Mary 
glittered on glass. There was a quantity of 
glass, there were consequential rows of it, all rais- 
ing money for somebody, all reminding the pil- 
grim that meadows move with the times. “Well, 
I suppose it’s progress,” said Conrad, shaking 
his head. But he missed the dandelions. He 
was a Conservative by instinct, though he was a 
Liberal by reason. 

When he loitered back to the view of Mow- 
bray Lodge, a lady of the age which the French 
call “certain” had come out on the veranda. She 
had a little shawl over her shoulders, and in her 
hand she held a pair of scissors with which she 
was clipping a palm. The placid gaze she lifted 
to him was not discouraging, and advancing 
towards her with a bow he said : — 

“Pray forgive me for troubling you, but may 
I ask if Mr. Boultbee lives here now?” 

“N — no,” answered the lady pensively, “no 
gentleman lives here. ‘Mr. Boultbee’? I’m 
afraid I don’t know the name. Are you sure he 
is still living in the town ?” 

“I am sure of nothing,” replied Conrad. “It 
is so long since my last visit that I am even doubt- 
ful if he is living at all.” 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 17 


She seemed to reflect again and said: “Per- 
haps they might be able to tell you at the post- 
offlce.” 

“It really isn’t important,” he declared, 
“though I’m obliged by your suggestion. To 
confess the truth, I am more drawn to the gar- 
den than to Mr. Boultbee. Years ago I spent a 
summer here, and being in the neighbourhood 
again I couldn’t resist the temptation to come 
and dream over the top rail of your gate.” 

“Oh — er — would you care to look round the 
place?” she murmured with a tentative wave of 
the scissors. 

“I should be charmed,” said Conrad, “if I am 
not intruding.” 

“Of course you don’t see it to advantage now. 

Last month ” She moved across the lawn 

beside him, telling the falsehoods with which 
everybody who has a garden always dejects a 
visitor. He affected that thirst for knowledge 
with which everybody who is shown a garden al- 
ways rewards a host. 

“It’s a long time since you were here, I think 
you said?” she remarked, pleased by his eager- 
ness. 

“It is,” said Conrad, in his most Byronic man- 
ner, “just a quarter of a century.” The lady 
looked startled, and he continued with a sigh. 


18 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 


“Yes, I was then in that exquisitely happy pe- 
riod of life when we just begin to know that we 
are happy; you may imagine what memories are 
stirring in me: — 

“ ‘I can recall, nay, they are present still, 

Parts of myself, the perfume of my mind. 

Days that seem farther off than Homer’s now 
Ere yet the child had loudened to the boy.* • • • 

That poem — Lowell’s ‘The Cathedral’ — flashed 
into my mind as I came upon your parish church 
awhile ago, and 

“ ‘gazed abashed. 

Child of an age that lectures, not creates/ 

at its old honours. I quoted the best part of a 
stanza to myself in the street. I’m afraid that 
is a habit of mine.” 

“It must be very nice,” said the lady appre- 
hensively, “yes, indeed!” 

It appeared that she was no more acquainted 
with Lowell than with Mr. Boultbee, so gliding 
to a subject which lay quite near his heart this 
afternoon he introduced a third name. 

“When I was here last a Dr. Page occupied 
the villa across the fence,” he went on. “He had 
a daughter. To be prolix, he had several daugh- 
ters, but to me his family consisted of Miss Mary. 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 19 


We were engaged. I won’t ask you if they are 
there still — something warns me that they are 
not — but can you, by any chance, give me news 
of them?” 

“I am sorry I cannot,” she returned, flutter- 
ing. “There has been no Dr. Page in Sweet- 
bay — I am almost certain there has been no Dr. 
Page in Sweetbay since I settled here. I am 
positive there is none now — quite positive! 

There’s Dr. Hunt, there’s Dr. Tatham ” 

She recounted laboriously the names of all the 
medical men practising about the town, while he 
wondered what she was doing it for. 

“I thank you heartily,” he said, when she 
reached the end of the list. 

The next moment it became evident that she, 
in her turn, had a question to put, for her glance 
was interrogating him already, and at last she 
faltered : — 

“Pardon my asking you, but did I understand 
you to say that you were — h’m — engaged to the 
daughter of Dr. Page twenty-five years ago? 
Surely when you said you were a child then, it 
was no figure of speech?” 

“No,” answered Conrad; “but to be frank 
with you, it was nothing less than the thought 
of her that lured me back to-day. Let me ad- 
mit that I wasn’t quite ingenuous when I spoke 


20 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 


of — of ‘being’ in the neighbourhood; I came de- 
liberately, in fulfilment of a cherished plan. To 
me your garden is a tomb — if I may say so with- 
out depressing you — it is the tomb of the Used- 
to-be. We were both children, but there are 
some things that one never forgets : — 

“ Tm not a chicken ; I have seen 
Full many a chill September, 

And though I was a youngster then. 

That girl I well remember/ 

Holmes wrote ‘gale,’ not ‘girl,’ otherwise he 
might have been speaking for me.” 

“Such constancy is very beautiful,” breathed 

the lady; “I thought ” She paused, slightly 

pink. 

“But it was unfair,” he assured her; “men can 
be quite as constant as women — especially to the 
women they never won.” 

“Er — perhaps you would like to see the 
house?” she inquired; “and you will allow me to 
offer you some tea before you go?” 

“I accept both offers gratefully,” said Con- 
rad. 

He followed her into the hall, and she con- 
ducted him, with little prefatory murmurs, to 
such of the apartments as a maiden lady might 
modestly display. Repapered and rearranged 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 21 

they looked quite strange to him, but the knowl- 
edge that he was in Mowbray Lodge averted 
boredom. 

“You find them altered,” she said, as they 
went back to the drawing-room. 

“Improved,” said he. 

“And the tow r n,” she added; “no doubt you 
find the town improved too?” 

“Altered,” said Conrad, thinking of the mar- 
ket garden. “Well, it is certainly bigger.” 

“The rapid development of Sweetbay can as- 
tonish none who bear in mind its remarkable 
combination of climatic advantages, but the syl- 
van fairness of the town is not diminished, and 
it continues to present an unrivalled example of 
the ‘rus in urbe,’ ” responded the lady with sur- 
prising fluency. “Do you take sugar and 
milk?” 

“Ah — thank you,” he said. 

“Are you making a long stay among us, 
or ?” 

“A very brief one. Indeed, I thought of re- 
turning to-morrow.” 

“Oh!” There was a tinge of disappointment 
in her “Oh.” “I wondered if you meant to stop. 

If you had meant to pass the winter here 

But I daresay you would have preferred an hotel 
anyhow?” 


22 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 

“I don’t understand,” he said, sipping. “What 
is it you were going to be good enough to sug- 
gest?” 

“It occurred to me that, as the house has so 
many associations for you, you might have liked 
to take it for a short term. I am trying to let 
it furnished during the next few months, and I 
could leave the servants. My cook has been 
with me now ” 

“You would let this house to me?” exclaimed 
Conrad, thrilling, and saw such splendid visions 
that for quite a minute he forgot to attend to 
her. 

“If the rent is too high ?” She was re- 

garding him nervously. 

“Not at all,” he cried, “not at all. I was sim- 
ply lost in the effulgent prospect that you’ve 
opened to me.” 

“Really?” 

“It was an inspiration. How kind of you to 
mention it.” 

She deprecated gratitude. “There would be 
no children, of course?” she said, her gaze dwell- 
ing among her china. 

“Four,” he answered promptly. “That is, the 
youngest must be about thirty-five now. I beg 
your pardon, but I have had an inspiration, too. 
I’m dazzled by the idea of peopling the house 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 23 


with the men and women who were children here 
five-and- twenty years ago ; I dare swear my rela- 
tives have never set foot in Sweetbay since. We’ll 
be comrades all over again — you know how Time 
loosens these childish ties — in the very place, in 
the very rooms, where we were such comrades 
then. Why, it’s the most delightful plan that 
was ever hatched!” He hesitated. “I wonder if 
they’ll come? How about the trains? One of 
my cousins would have to go up rather often, I 
expect.” 

“The railway company has combined with 
Mother Nature and a spirited Corporation to 
render Sweetbay attractive to the jaded Lon- 
doner. The service is fast and frequent, and 
well-appointed ‘flys’ may be chartered at most 
reasonable fares,” replied his hostess without an 
instant’s pause. 

“How convenient!” said Conrad. “What 
more can he want?” 

“If you think your friends may need persua- 
sion, I should be pleased to present you with a 
copy of a little work of mine to send them. It 
describes all the attractions of the neighbourhood 
— and it’s quite unlike the usual guide-book. It 
is thorough, but chatty. My aim has been to 
inform the visitor in a sprightly way.” 

“An authoress?” he said warmly. 


24 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 


“Of one book only,” she murmured, her face 
suffused by an unbecoming blush. 

“But of many readers, I’ll be bound! If ob- 
stacles arise then, it shall be your pen that con- 
quers them. You overwhelm me with kind- 
nesses. I really think, though, the address will 
be magnet enough for the friends I want. 
‘Mowbray Lodge, Sweetbay’ — how they’ll stare! 
‘Bring your spades and pails,’ I shall write; 
‘come, and let us all be boys and girls again.’ 
The girls have little girls and boys of their own 
now. No, don’t be afraid of their smashing that 
soul-stirring Chelsea, my dear madam — I won’t 
have them. That’s the essence of the contract, 
the new generation must be left behind. There 
must be we four, and nobody else — the four who 
will find their childhood waiting for them here, 
just the four who can feel the enchantment of 
Mowbray Lodge. So it is settled?” 

“As far as ” She smoothed her gown. 

“Oh, naturally there must be references, and 
inventories, and all sorts of tiresome details — 
and with your permission we will get them over 
as soon as possible. I shall have the pleasure 
of wilting to you to-morrow. To whom: ” 

“Miss Phipps,” she intimated. 

“And mine is ‘Warrener.’ Stay, I have a 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 25 

card. But, by the way, when did you propose 
to let me come in. Miss Phipps?” 

“ Would next month suit you?” she asked. 
“Perhaps you would prefer it to be early in the 
month?” 

“I wouldn’t disorder your arrangements for 
the world, yet I own that ‘early’ has a musical 
ring. It would be agreeable to arrive before the 
colder weather.” 

“There are places in England where winter’s 
cold blasts seem never to penetrate, and where 
birds and flowers go on singing and blooming 
in defiance of the calendar,” she rejoined. 

“Really?” said Conrad. “Still ” 

“And among such places,” concluded the lady 
firmly, “Sweetbay is pre-eminent. . . . But you 
will let me give you another cup of tea?” 


CHAPTER III 


He could not persuade himself that the invi- 
tations evoked enthusiasm, indeed two of them 
were declined at the beginning. Only Nina ac- 
cepted at once. She wrote : “How on earth did 
you find Sweetbay again — is it still on the map? 
Yes, I will come — and with ‘no encumbrances’ 
— but I won’t promise to be rural so long as all 
that. If I were you, I would arrange with the 
Stores for constant supplies. Can you depend 
on the cook?” 

Regina was obviously indignant at the exclu- 
sion of her husband. She replied that her 
cousin’s remembrance of their childhood was 
“quite touching.” This was underlined. “But 
though I fully understand that Toto’s presence 
would spoil your romantic plan, I cannot pretend 
to forget that I am now a wife, Conrad.” Con- 
rad was perturbed. He drove to Regent’s Park 
and showed the letter to Nina, and she said that 
her sister couldn’t forget she was a wife, because 
she had married a remote relation of Lord Pol- 
pero’s. 


26 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH Wt 


“They have stayed at the ‘Abbey,’ my dear; 
at least she tells me they have as often as she con- 
descends to dine with us — Hegent’s Park is ‘so 
far away’ from their poky little place in Mayfair ! 
She can just call it ‘Mayfair’ without getting a 
remonstrance from the postal authorities. An 
‘Abbey’ has been too much for her. Of course 
Polpero is a pauper, and the Abbey’s a wreck, 
but I believe she slept with the family-tree over 
her bed. It’s about the only tree of Polpero’s 
that the woodman has spared, but ’Gina feels 
Norman.” 

Conrad was still perturbed. He hastened to 
appease Regina, and moderating his desires, im- 
plored “Toto” to spare her to him just for a week 
or two. “Toto” said promptly that “a couple of 
months at Sweetbay was exactly what she needed 
for her cough.” So she was won, and there re- 
mained only Ted to conquer. 

As a young professional man with nothing to 
do, Ted had naturally been slow to answer the* 
letter. Young professional men make a point 
of delaying a long time before they answer let- 
ters — it shows how busy they are. After they 
have plenty of work on hand they answer more 
quickly. When he wrote, he declared that the 
notion of renewing their boyish memories in such 
tranquil quarters appealed to him more forcibly 


88 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 


than he could say, but he was “so terribly hard 
pressed that he feared he would get no change 
until he ran over to Monte Carlo at the end of 
the term.” He was at the Bar, waiting for briefs. 

Conrad called at his chambers, and bore him 
off to dinner. Ted was fortunately independent 
of his profession, and his immutable purpose was 
to convince people that it was wearing him to 
death. In the restaurant he bent over his melon 
a, brow corrugated by the cares of imaginary 
suits ; he frowned at his soup through a monocle 
as if he were perpending an Opinion. But it 
was a dinner of supreme excellence, and then 
they adjourned to the club. If it had not been 
Ted’s club too, and socially undistinguished, Con- 
rad might have aspired to greater favours now. 
Invite a man to a club for which he is ineligible 
himself, and he will remember you with kindli- 
ness no less often than he drawls, “A fellow was 
telling me in Brook’s the other day ” Be- 

fore they parted, Ted had consented quite cheer- 
fully — for the later Ted — and all was well. 

So the evening came when Conrad sat in Mow- 
bray Lodge looking forward to the morrow and 
the arrival of the train due at twelve fifteen. And 
he looked forward with more eagerness because 
the evening, strange to say, was rather melan- 
choly, and the knowledge that he was going to 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 29 

bed in a room where he had slept as a boy in- 
duced a mood totally different from the mood 
that he had expected of it. He did not feel a 
boy as he sat in the silent house, by a bad light, 
listening to the rain patter on the shrubs. On 
the contrary he felt increasingly old and increas- 
ingly mournful while the long evening wore 
away. The dreary lamps depressed him, and 
the sad tick of the clock, and the ceaseless drip- 
ping of the rain sent him to the whisky-bottle. 

After breakfast next day he bought lamps — 
several of them — with duplex burners. The 
roads were a little sloppy, but the sky was blue. 
He was gratified to reflect that his cousins were 
doubtless blinking in a black fog ; the permanent 
pleasure of wintering in the country is the 
thought of how unhappy our friends must be in 
town. In the forlornest watering-places of the 
south coast you may notice, on a fine November 
morning, people folding newspapers briskly and 
looking heavenward with a twinkle in their eyes. 
They are all returning thanks for the sufferings 
of their friends in London. 

The train due at twelve fifteen wound into 
view at twelve thirty-five. 

They were there! Nina, alert, a smile on her 
thin, shrewd face; Regina, with an air of having 


SO . CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 

travelled under protest; Ted, bowed beneath the 
weight of the Law Courts. 

“So you’ve come!” 

“At last! What a loathsome line!” 

“Who’s looking after the luggage? Is there 
a cab to be had ?” 

“Well, of course. Do you suppose it’s a vil- 
lage?” 

“How hot it is! You must be smothered in 
those furs, dear?” This to Nina from ’Gina. 
’Gina was always expensively clothed, and badly 
dressed, but she couldn’t vie with the Regent’s 
Park sables. “You must be half dead,” she in- 
sisted compassionately; “it’s as warm as the 
Riviera.” 

“We boast of it in our advertisements,” said 
Conrad, “but it isn’t. How did you leave Toto 
and the family?” 

He heard that it was a fine day in town too, 
and secretly resented the fact. The party drove 
away, another fly rumbling with the baggage in 
their wake. 

“The lane!” he exclaimed as he sprang out. 
“And it’s the same as ever.” 

“I don’t remember it a bit,” said all three, gaz- 
ing about them vaguely. 

“The garden!” he displayed it in triumph. 

“I fancied it was quite big,” said Nina, 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH Sl\ 

“Funny how wee children’s eyes exaggerate, 
isn’t it?” But she had not really been so wee as 
all that. 

“The hall, where Boultbee was always rag- 
ging us because we didn’t wipe our shoes !” He 
had thrown the door open before the maid could 
run upstairs. 

“Who was Boultbee?” asked Regina. “What 
a memory you have!” 

They lunched; and they were blithe at lunch- 
eon; they discussed a divorce case in smart cir- 
cles. Regina said hurriedly that there was “an- 
other side to the story.” She knew no more 
about it than she had read in the papers, but she 
now moved on the confines of smart circles, and 
there are people who can never accustom them- 
selves to advancement, pecuniary or social. 

“Her husband is such a scamp,” she explained, 
“such a scamp! I don’t defend her, but there’s 
so much that never came out in court. Dear 
Lady Marminger, her mother, was always 
against the match, she always felt it would be 
fatal. I recollect when we were staying at the 

Abbey once ” She was the most obnoxious 

variety of snob : the middle-class woman who has 
married into the fringe of society. If she had 
written novels, everybody in them who wasn’t a 
duchess would have been a duke. 


82 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 


“One of the cleverest things ever said in the 
divorce court,’’ Ted began judicially, “was when 

Hollburn was cross-examining ” 

“Oh, the scamp theory is worn out!” struck in 
Nina. “When a woman has married a scamp, 
her family feel provided with an excuse for every- 
thing odious she does all the rest of her life.” 

“Was when Hollburn was cross-examin- 
ing ” He was not to be put off. 

They were Nina, and ’Gina, and Ted, and Con- 
rad welcomed them with both hands, but he 
caught himself thinking that for any influence 
the surroundings had upon the conversation he 
might as well have invited them to Princes’. 

He took Ted to see the summer-house when 
luncheon was over — the summer-house in which 
they used to have their conferences when they 
were such chums — and Ted was a disappoint- 
ment. The summer-house had withstood the 
years, but the chum had gone. He was affect- 
ing interest, and it hurt — it hurt horribly, because 
he was Ted and they were where they were. He 
was led to Rose Villa, where Mary Page had 
lived. The sound of its name had made their 
hearts ache once, and the same name was on the 
same gate-post, visible to the same eyes. He 
passed it by, telling casual falsehoods about the 
extent of the practice that he hadn’t made, and 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 88 


when the post was pointed out, he murmured: 
“Oh, is it? By Jove!” — maintained a perfunc- 
tory pause for ten seconds, and broke it with, 
“Well, as I was saying ” 

Afterwards they all sauntered to the espla- 
nade, and Conrad owned to himself that it was 
no animated scene. But the sun shone bright, 
and when there is beautiful weather in Sweet- 
bay it almost compensates for the absence of 
everything else there. 

“Like spring,” he observed; “isn’t it? Prob- 
ably there’s a fog in town by now, or it’s begin- 
ning to snow. We’re all well out of it.” 

“Y-e-s,” replied Nina. “You don’t find it a 
little depressing seeing so many people in bath- 
chairs, do you?” 

“ ‘So many people?’ ” Regina was derisive. 
“I’ve only seen seven human beings since we ar- 
rived.” 

“Still, the seven were all in bath-chairs,” said 
Nina. 

“One expects to meet people in bath-chairs at 
the seaside,” Conrad pleaded. 

“But not sick people,” she said, “here they are 
conscientious. It’s a pretty little band-stand; 
what time does the band play?” 

“It’ll begin in June, I think,” he answered. 

“June?” cried Regina. 


84 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 


“It’s not the season,” he pointed out. “Of 
course it’s quiet just now.” ^ 

“I don’t wish to cavil,” said Ted, with a for- 
bearing smile, “but when you tell us it is not the 
season, I am struck by a slight discrepancy in 
your statements. A few minutes ago you told 
us it was a winter place.” 

“Well, so it is, but it’s first of all an English 
place. You mustn’t ask for bands to discourse 
in band-stands all the year round, my dear fel- 
low — such things don’t happen. ... A Town 
band’ enlivens the streets once a week, I believe ; 
I’m not an authority yet — I only came down 
yesterday morning, and I’ve been setting my 
house in order. There’s a theatre,” he added 
hopefully; “we might drop in to-night, if you 
like. I can’t say what is going on there, but 
we’ll ascertain.” 

They spied a framed play-bill in a confection- 
er’s window on the way back, and stopped to ex- 
amine it. Though the piece was familiar to 
them, and the names of the company were 
strange, they crowded before the play-bill cheer- 
fully until they discovered that it bore an ancient 
date. The theatre, they learnt, was now closed, 
excepting for an “orchestral concert” every 
Thursday evening. This was Saturday. 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 35 


“We’ll have a jolly evening at home/’ said 
Conrad. 

“There isn’t a billiard table, I suppose?” in- 
quired Regina; “I’m an awful swell with the cue. 
I make them play every night at the Abbey when 
we’re there. Polpero chaffs me about it im- 
mensely; he’s one of the old school — sweet, but 
of the old school. It’s such fun — I chaff him 
back. Toto roars” 

The inventory had not included a billiard 
table, but he remembered after dinner that he had 
seen a Pier “Pavilion” advertised, and his guests 
seemed encouraged when he mentioned it. Re- 
gina said it was fun to be bohemian sometimes. 

The place looked less animated still when they 
sped forth to be “bohemian.” Its aspect was 
no longer sedate, it was bereaved. The vacant 
High Street mourned behind its shutters. At 
the Quadrant a forsaken policeman kept a dole- 
ful eye on space. 

“Everybody must be on the pier,” said Con- 
rad. “As soon as we turn the corner we shall 
see the lights.” 

Their feet sprung echoes in the stricken town 
as they pressed forward ; and through the gloom 
that veiled a moaning sea, the pier became dis- 
tinguishable. But no light was on it save the 
light of a misty moon, no gas-jet glimmered 


86 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 


among the globes on either side. The pay-box 
was black and tenantless ; the gates were locked. 
Against them leant a lonely board, announcing 
a “Refined Entertainment” for the twenty-sec- 
ond evening of the previous month. The desola- 
tion of the scene was tragic. 

Their return was made in silence. And the 
first thing happened that recalled the days of 
their childhood here: they all went to bed early. 

Nina wanted to know if she could be given 
another room, the next morning. She remarked 
that the slowest railways always made the most 
fuss, and that a train had been rehearsing out- 
side her window half the night. “It rattled and 
snorted, and clashed and clanked till three 
o’clock.” She acknowledged Conrad’s regrets 
and assurances with a plaintive sigh, and shook 
her head feebly at her coffee cup. 

It was raining. That it can rain in Sweetbay 
for a fortnight on end with no longer intervals 
than the entr’actes at a fashionable theatre is 
not distinctive; the idiocrasy of Sweetbay is that 
it recommences raining twenty times a day as if 
the deluge had been hoarded for a year — it rains 
as if the heavens had fallen out. Nina and 
’Gina, who had ventured into the lane “between 
the showers,” were drenched before they could 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 37 

gain shelter, and they were taciturn when they 
had changed their clothes. 

The rain was still pelting when Ted went up 
to town on Monday, and a vicious wind lashed 
“sunny Sweetbay ,, when he came back. On 
Tuesday the ardour of the flood abated, but “the 
fairest spot in England” was sodden under a per- 
severing drizzle, and a letter by the evening post 
made Regina nervous about the health of her 
baby. “Toto seemed a good deal worried,” she 
said, “and she thought under the circumstances 
she ought to be at home.” She departed on 
Wednesday in a cataract. 

“Do you think she’s good-looking?” asked 
Nina. 

“She is not good-looking,” said Conrad re- 
flectively, “but she’s so convinced that she is that 
she almost persuades you in moments.” 

“That’s it,” Nina assented; “she attitudinises 
as if she were a beauty. When they’re shown 
photographs of her with her face bent, men are 
quite eager to know her. Of course the baby’s 
bosh!” 

“I’ll confess that I’m not anxious about the 
baby myself, I’m afraid she found it rather slow 
here. I got Punch for her at the station, and a 
servant went round before breakfast to order a 
foot-warmer — it’s necessary to give notice when 


38 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 

you’ll want a foot-warmer — but it was weak rep- 
aration. You were all very good to come.” 

“If there were anything to read in the house, 
I wouldn’t mind so much,” she said, “I mean I 
wouldn’t mind the weather. If it ever leaves off, 
we might go and try to find ‘a select library in 
connection with Mudie’s.’ ” 

“There are heaps of books in the house — I 
can lend you all the poets.” 

“I would rather have something to read,” she 
said, “thanks. Do you think if we found one, it 
would be open oftener than once a week?” 

“You mustn’t misjudge the town by the the- 
atre,” he expostulated; “that the theatre only 
opens once a week is due to a combination of 
circumstances that I don’t know anything about, 
but I am sanguine of the shops opening every 
day.” 

“How long are you saddled with the place 
for?” Her tone was sympathetic. 

“I’m not sorry I took it,” he answered. “Of 
course everything is more or less a disappoint- 
ment except the unattainable. When Columbus 
reached the New World at last, the aborigines 
said, ‘Well, what do you think of Amurrica?’ 
He said, T thought it would be bigger.’ A bird 
in the hand is not worth two in the bush ; on the 
contrary, a lark in the sky is worth two in the 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 39 


pudding. If you ever scratched those pretty 
hands of yours getting a glow-worm out of a 
hedge, you know that, when you have brought it 
home, you wondered why you had given yourself 
so much inconvenience to acquire the little im- 
postor. Possession strains — it depresseth her 
that gives, and him that takes. While it was in 
the hedge, the glow-worm shone no less divine 
than the poet’s star.” 

“Where was that?” 

“In a fable. Did you think I meant a star of 
the music-halls? They weren’t the fashion in 
poetry yet. He was a glorious poet enchanted 
by a star of the heavens. He stretched his arms 
to it, he sang to it nightly. And for his sake the 
star ‘stooped earthward, and became a woman.’ 
And then the day came when the woman asked 
her lover which was best — ‘The Star’s beam, or 
the Woman’s breast’: — 

“ ‘I miss from heaven/ the man replied, 

‘A light that drew my spirit to it.* 

And to the man the woman sigh’d, 

T miss from earth a poet/ ” 

“M-m, that’s rather sensible,” admitted Nina, 
“I like that — I suppose it can’t be really great 
poetry. What get on my nerves so in the poetry 
of the Really Great are those irritating words 


40 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 


that I knew were coming, like ‘porphyry’ and 
‘empyrean,’ and ‘bower’ and ‘nymph’; and then 
there are the titles — they always sound so dull 
because I never know what they mean. Well, 
go on talking to me.” 

At eleven o’clock the downpour ceased, and 
presently a timid sunbeam played upon a pud- 
dle. They went out to look for a library at 
noon. There was no need for umbrellas. 

The librarian was a listless juvenile of “su- 
perior manners.” When she was not occupied 
among the literature, she assisted in the fancy 
department. While Nina was lingering at the 
shelves, three middle-aged gentlewomen came to 
the counter, and the first one said: — 

“Good morning. I want a . . . book. Some- 
thing — er — rather exciting.” 

The juvenile threw an omniscient glance at the 
collection, and plucked. The lady read the title 
aloud : — 

“Is this rather exciting?” 

“Oh, yes, madam, that is very exciting.” 

“Oh.” She ruffled the pages irresolutely. 
“It’s not very long,” she complained; “haven’t 
you anything longer?” 

The juvenile plucked. 

“Is this rather exciting?” asked the lady. 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 41 

She was assured that it was no less exciting 
than the other novel. 

“Oh,” she said . . . “ ‘The Face in the 
Drawer/ Oh . . . I’ll take this one then. You 
know the address, don’t you? Good morning.” 

The requirement of the second matron was: 
“Something pretty . . . not too short ... to 
last me through the week.” Conrad almost ex- 
pected to hear the librarian reply that they had 
“A very durable line at three-three,” but she 
plucked again. 

“Shall I like it?” inquired the middle-aged 
woman trustfully. 

The juvenile, listless, but confident, told her 
that she was “Quite sure to like that.” 

“You’re sure?” said the lady. “Oh, very well 
then — I’ll have it. Good day.” 

The third subscriber was still more free from 
the vice of favouritism. She simply stated that 
she wanted “A nice book to read.” The li- 
brarian handed a book to her, and she accepted 
it as unquestioningly as if it had been stamps in 
a post-office. In not one of the three cases had 
any author’s name been mentioned. There are 
popular writers, there is a public besieging the 
libraries for their work, but the literary choice 
of the Nation is bulk for its twopence and the 
tale approved by the child at the desk. 


42 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 


“I hope you haven’t been bored?” said Nina 
at last, holding out half-a-dozen volumes to be 
carried for her. 

“Not in the faintest degree!” cried Conrad. 

But he was exceedingly bored on the morrow 
when Ted returned to dinner with elaborate ex- 
cuses for bringing his visit to a sudden close. 
Yes, the host w r as bored then; he knew so well 
while he responded: “What a nuisance!” and 
“Of course it can’t be helped,” that Ted was not 
in the least “needed in town,” only dull in Sweet- 
bay. They were all to have gone together to the 
“Orchestral Concert,” and when the barrister al- 
leged that he felt “too worn out,” Conrad w T as 
not pressing. Nina went with him alone, and 
they walked some way before they spoke. She 
understood that he was hurt; dimly she under- 
stood that he had shown a stronger affection on 
his side than they had shown on theirs. 

“So the experiment is a failure. Con?” she 
said. 

He sighed. “I’m afraid there’s no other word 
for it. It was rather idiotic of me — I might 
have known you’d all be hipped.” 

“Oh, I don’t think it’s that,” she declared; “as 
a professional man Ted isn’t free.” She was 
ever ready to disparage Regina, but she had a 
soft spot in her shrewdness for Ted. “Of 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 43 

course,” she added after a moment, “his going 
means that I shall have to go too; I can’t stay 
with you by myself, ridiculous as these things 
are.” 

“No, I thought of that,” he said. “I’m sorry. 
I’m sorry you're going, Nina. It’s no use try- 
ing to persuade him, I suppose? If you told 
him you didn’t want to go ” 

Every woman is to be touched by oral senti- 
ment, excepting the sentiment of her lover whom 
she does not love. That irritates her to brutal- 
ity. Nina wavered: — 

“I might,” she owned. “Perhaps he could 
arrange.” 

“It would be very nice of you,” he said; “and 
really when you get used to Sweetbay, you’ll 
find it has a — a certain charm. Hallo ! What’s 
the matter here? Are we too soon?” 

They were opposite the theatre, but the build- 
ing was dark. His heart sank; he felt that the 
stars in their courses were fighting against him. 

“It isn’t open,” said Nina superfluously. 

“We must have come too soon,” he urged. 
“Let’s cross over, and see what time it begins.” 

For a minute or two they peered at the glum 
frontage, puzzled, and then they descried — af- 
fixed by its flap to a large door — a small enve- 
lope. It was an official announcement. On the 


44 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 


envelope was written, “No concert this evening.’’ 

They turned away, and moved in reverie to- 
wards the sea. 

On the long lamp-blurred stretch of asphalt 
no one moved. A mile of downcast lodging- 
houses, veiled in gloom, kept hopeless watch over 
a blank Parade; in their dim fan-lights the leg- 
end of “Apartments” looked the emblem of de- 
spair. To the right, the black pier slumbered 
silently; to the left, a lugubrious hotel, unpeo- 
pled and unlit, imparted to the view the last sym- 
bol of disaster. On a sudden, spasmodically — 
in the wide-spread desolation — the town band 
burst into the overture to “Zampa.” It was the 
jocularity of hysteria at a funeral. Nina gave 
a gulp, and clutched his arm. 

“Conrad,” she quavered, “let me go home to- 
morrow, or I shall cry!” 

He did not plead with her ; he recognised that 
there was some justice in her plaint. He prom- 
ised that she should go by an early train, and his 
kindness cheered her. 

She came down to breakfast with her hat on. 

She, too, had Punch and a foot-warmer, and 
again he doubted if they were adequate to excul- 
pate him. 

“Try to bear no malice,” he begged on the 
platform. 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 45 


“You’ll dine with us as soon as you come back, 
won’t you?” she laughed. 

“Good-bye, old chap,” exclaimed Ted. He 
had risen quite vivacious. “Mind you look me 
up when you’re in town ; let me know well ahead, 
and I’ll manage a spare evening.” 

“I expect I’ve left a lot of things behind,” 
said Nina brightly, bending to the window; “you 
might tell the servants to send them on.” 

“Yes, I’ll tell them. Are you sure you don’t 
want any more papers?” 

“We’re a long time starting, aren’t we?” said 
Ted. 

“You’re just off,” Conrad answered. 

It was less than a week since he had loitered 
on the other side, impatient for their arrival. 
He forced a smile, and stood bareheaded, and 
turned from the station with a sigh. 

“ ‘Oh near ones, dear ones ! you in whose right hands 
Our own rests calm; whose faithful hearts all day 
Wide open wait till back from distant lands 

Thought, the tired traveller, wends his homeward 
way ! 

Helpmates and hearthmates, gladdeners of gone 
years’ 

Where are you ? 33 said Conrad. 


CHAPTER IV 


He felt very lonely. Something of the 
Christmas spirit descended on him — the true, 
the unacknowledged Christmas spirit, in which, 
after we have directed the last stack of cards, 
and hurried out aglow with the last parcel, we 
sit before the bare mantel-piece, discovering that 
most of our acquaintances have become too ad- 
vanced to observe the season. We are quite sure 
it is “advancement,” though it looks a little like 
stinginess. He wondered, as he entered the 
lane, whether the other child he was remember- 
ing would have proved a disappointment too; 
wondered if the ache in his heart would be in- 
telligible to her, or if he would appear to her ab- 
surd. It interested him to wonder. Conjec- 
turing the disposition of the strange woman 
whose whereabouts he did not know, he endued 
her w T ith many attributes that he admired, and 
she moved before his mental vision gradually as 
a fair and slightly pathetic figure, prepared to 
be his confidant. He fancied she was unhappy 
with her husband. At least the sadness of life 
46 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 47 

had touched her enough to tinge her sentiment 
with cynicism, and she had flashes of wit on wet 
days. 

It surprised him that he had made no attempt 
to trace her; his curiosity was awake. Many 
things were more unlikely than that she was liv- 
ing in the town. As he passed Rose Villa he 
was in two minds about ringing the bell and try- 
ing to gather information from the present occu- 
pants. Probably he would have obeyed the im- 
pulse, but while he hesitated the householder 
came out — a middle-aged little man, with a san- 
guine complexion, and gaiters. 

Conrad accosted him. “Excuse me,” he 
began. 

The gentleman saluted with his crop. “ ’Morn- 
ing,” he said. 

“I was looking at your bell with the idea of 
troubling you with an inquiry about a 'missing 
friend.’ May I ask if you happen to know the 
address of your predecessor here — Dr. Page?” 

“Who?” said the little man briskly. 

“Dr. Page.” 

“No. Don’t know the name. Took the place 
of people called — er — Greames. . . . Agents 
might tell you — Chipper and Stokes in the High 
Street. Page? Doctor? N-no.” He shook his 
head. “Sorry.” 


"48 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 


“I thank you.” 

“Not at all. Neighbours, I think, sir? For 
long?” 

“No; it’s a very temporary pleasure of mine,” 
said Conrad. 

“Congratulate you!” said the little man. “If 
your friend was a doctor, probably knew better 
than to stop. Much misled myself. Recom- 
mended here for my health. Most in-j^-rious! 
Damp, sir, Sweetbay is damp. They call it a 
‘humid atmosphere’ ; ‘humid atmosphere’ be 
damned, sir! Take your clothes off the peg in 
the morning and wring ’em out. That’s not a 
humid atmosphere — it’s a death-trap.” 

“You astonish me,” said Conrad. “I under- 
stood the climate was so salubrious that the in- 
habitants would all live to be a hundred if they 
didn’t die of the dulness young.” He lifted his 
hat. “I am obliged.” 

“Pleasure,” said the neighbour. “Er — hope 
we shall — er, er ” 

“I hope so too,” smiled Conrad. “Er — no 
doubt.” 

“ ’Morning,” said the gentleman, saluting with 
his crop. 

It was discomfiting to find the occupant of 
Mary’s former home so completely ignorant 
of Mary. Such ignorance, there, on the very 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 49 


threshold, in view of the sun shutters that had 
framed her face, seemed rather callous of him. 
As Conrad watched him swagger up the lane, 
he resented the usurper’s privilege to stretch his 
gaitered legs on the hearth to whose history he 
w r as so utterly indifferent. 

Somehow the drawing-room looked emptier 
still to Conrad for the colloquy, when he went 
indoors. In the violent disassociation of the next 
house from Mary Page, this one seemed sud- 
denly foreign to him; suddenly he felt that he 
had committed a fatuous and a mournful act in 
taking it. Sweetbay had meant to him four per- 
sons, and of these, three had fled, and the fourth 
was lost. Why should he stay here? He 
thought vaguely of a little dinner up West, and 
a stall at the Alhambra. He nearly stretched 
his arm for the time-table — and all the while the 
melancholy that oppressed him urged him to re- 
main and find Mary. His mind demanded her 
more insistently than before. It was no longer 
a whim: it was a strenuous desire. “ After all, 
it would be a crazy thing, to go to London for 
pleasure!” he mused. “I’ll hear what the agents 
have to say.” 

He strolled to their office after luncheon, and 
a small boy told him that Mr. Stokes was in. 
For once Conrad chafed at the local languor. 


50 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 


The torpid tradesman, unconcerned whether he 
bought or not, had amused him, but the heavy 
young man who gazed at him with vacant eyes 
was irritating. 

“Dr. Page?” echoed the young man dully; 
“Rose Villa? There was a Dr. Page in Essel- 
field, wasn’t there?” 

“I don’t know,” said Conrad. “Perhaps you 
can tell me. Where is Esselfield?” 

“That’s along the Esselfield Road,” said Mr. 
Stokes with deliberation. “What do you want 
to know for?” 

“I’m trying to learn the address of a friend 
who has moved,” Conrad explained, labouredly 
polite. 

“Oh y-e-s.” He paused so long that it seemed 
doubtful if he would speak again. “There was 
a Dr. Page in Esselfield; I can’t say if he’s there 
still.” 

“The gentleman I mean was — well, he must be 
an elderly man,” said Conrad. He could not re- 
member in the least how Dr. Page had looked; 
he wished he knew his Christian name. “An el- 
derly man. He had a family. They used to be 
at Rose Villa, next door to Mowbray Lodge. I’m 
talking of years ago — a good many years ago. 
. . . Perhaps your partner might be able to assist 
me?” 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 51 

“Major Bompas lives at Rose Villa now,” said 
Mr. Stokes. His tone was a little firmer, the 
tone of one who says a helpful thing. 

“And he took it of people called ‘Greames’; I 
know all that. Dr. Page had the house before 
the Greames.” 

“Oh,” murmured Mr. Stokes, “did he? Y-e-s. 
. . . No, I couldn’t say, I’m sure. Mr. Greames 
lived there before Major Bompas. Mr. Greames 
was there a long while back."’ 

“Dr. Page lived there in — let me think, where 
are we now? It mnst have been in eighteen 
seventy-seven.” 

“Oh Gawd !” said the young man faintly. For 
the first time an expression humanised his coun- 
tenance, an expression of dismay tempered with 
entertainment. It made Conrad feel prehistoric. 
“Eighteen sev-enty-sev-en? I’m sure I couldn’t 
tell you who lived there then!” A snigger es- 
caped him. “There was a Dr. Page at Essel- 
field,” he repeated; “he may have been at Rose 
Villa first.” 

“Is there any place in the town,” asked Con- 
rad, with frank disgust, “where it’s possible to 
see an old directory?” 

“I shouldn’t think,” averred the heavy young 
man, “that a directory was published in Sweetbay 


52 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 


in ’sev-enty-sev-en.” There was nearly a twinkle 
in his eyes. 

“Thank you,” said Conrad. “Good after- 
noon.” 

He went forth to seek the Esselfield Road 
incensed as well as disappointed now. ’Seventy- 
seven? Who was this blank-faced dolt to jeer 
at ’seventy-seven? Sweetbay had been an infi- 
nitely more attractive place in ’seventy-seven 
than it was to-day. The High Street bored him 
as he walked. Once it had been stimulating, 
replete with interest, and now it was unworthy 
his attention. He looked at it as a young girl 
looks at a married man. There was a fresh-col- 
oured woman dandling her baby behind the glass 
door of a baker’s shop as he passed, and he recog- 
nised with a frown that she had not been born 
in ’seventy-seven. It was a small matter, but it 
depressed him more. 

The sepulchral window of a monumental 
mason caught his glance. Overhead was the in- 
scription, “Established 1852.” He wavered in 
his course and entered. The interior was like a 
premature graveyard, ranged with marble tomb- 
stones waiting for allotment, and brittle wreaths 
lamenting the dissolution of “Beloved” relatives 
who were still alive. There seemed to him some- 
thing appropriate in pursuing his investigations 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 53 


among the tombstones. But though the busi- 
ness had been established in 1852, the mason him- 
self proved to be very recent. When he realised 
that his interlocutor was not there to give an 
order, the sympathetic droop of his bearing evap- 
orated, and he straightened into a careless soul to 
whom the mention of ’seventy-seven was almost 
as disconcerting as it had been to Mr. Stokes. 

The Esselfield Road was thick with mud after 
the heavy rains. His long tramp — for he had 
learnt that it was necessary to walk — had no en- 
livening effect on Conrad’s mood, nor was the 
village cheering when he reached it. A few 
houses were scattered beside a common; some 
geese waddled around a pond. Beyond an inn, 
a labourer in his cups shouted a refrain of the 
London music-halls. 

Conrad went into the “bar-parlour,” and asked 
for beer. In the sensitiveness to his years which 
was being so rapidly developed in him he ob- 
served with satisfaction that the untidy proprie- 
tress was middle-aged. “Yes, there had been a 
Dr. Page,” she told him. “Not what you might 
call a regular doctor — he didn’t do nothing. She 
believed he had moved into Sweetbay, so as to be 
near the sea.” 

“I understood that he moved here from Sweet- 


54 CONRAD IN QUEST 01 HIS YOUTH 


bay. An elderly man. He had a family/’ said 
Conrad with fatigue. 

“There was two young gals,” she agreed. 
“They was always about.” 

“ ‘About’?” he murmured. 

“Picking, and skating, and that. I used to 
say they was never at ’ome.” 

“Oho?” said Conrad. And added to himself, 
“The younger children grown up. Girls of 
spirit!” — “When did they leave?” he continued. 

“Oh, it must be a long time ago,” she an- 
swered. She turned to a man who had the air 
of being her husband. “ ’Ow long is it since that 
Dr. Page was ’ere, pa?” 

“Dr. Page,” drawled the man wonderingly. 
“Oh, it’s a long time ago.” 

“Yes,” she repeated, “it’s a long time ago.” 

“But, roughly, how long?” persisted Conrad. 

“W-e-11, it must be — eight years or more,” she 
said, visibly resenting an occasion to be definite. 

In his soul he groaned; if eight years seemed 
so remote, what would they think of twenty-five? 
Again he was bowed beneath the sense of senility. 

“You don’t happen to know where he settled 
in Sweetbay?” 

She shook her head, she had no idea at all 
neither of the pair had any idea at all; so he fin- 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 55 


ished his ale, and paid for some cigars, which 
there was, of course, no need to smoke. 

The lamps were winking through the dusk 
when he drew in sight of Sweetbay. At a sta« 
tioner’s he bought a directory of the current year, 
and studied it at the counter. It contained a 
“Captain Page,” and “John Page, milkman.” 
He found also “Miss Page, ladies’ outfitter,” and 
“Mrs. Page, laundress,” but there was no “Page” 
of promise among the leaves. He availed him- 
self of the opportunity to inquire again concern- 
ing the likelihood of his discovering an ancient 
copy of the work, but at his reference to ’seventy- 
seven the stationer, too, fell 8 gape. It recurred 
to Conrad that in connectior. with Mr. Boultbee 
the post-office had been suggested. Physically 
he was tired by now, but mentally he was un 
flagging, and he bent his steps to the general 
post-office forthwith. 

The clerk who sold the stamps to him “couldn’t 
say” ; she retired, however, to repeat his question 
to the postmistress, and it was at this point that 
the outlook brightened. The postmistress was a 
young and gracious woman in a pink blouse, and 
she came forward with a confident smile to in- 
form him that Dr. Page was no longer a resident 
of Sweetbay, but had removed to Redhill. “Red- 


56 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 

hill”? He had not suspected that anyone ever 
got out there. 

“An elderly man. He had a family,” he re- 
iterated with exhaustion. “Two young girls.” 

“Oh, yes,” she nodded, “that’s the same. Very 
pretty, tall young ladies? They were always in 
and out.” 

“Really?” said Conrad. Mary’s sister began 
to beckon to him. “Can you help me to com- 
municate with Dr. Page?” 

“We have the address he left with us — the one 
we used to forward letters to ; I don’t know if he’s 
there still.” She confessed the limitation of her 
knowledge with regret. “It’s some years since 
he went.” 

“Perhaps you would be so merciful as to give 
me the one you have's I am an old friend of Dr. 
Page’s family — very old — and till Providence di- 
rected my steps to you I despaired of finding 
them again.” He outlined the difficulties he had 
encountered, but he had grown diffident of men- 
tioning ’seventy- seven. 

The postmistress laughed quite mirthfully at 
his experiences, which, encouraged by her appre- 
ciation, he touched up to no inconsiderable ex- 
tent. After bidding the clerk turn to a book, 
she announced to him that the address was 
“Home Rest, Peregrine Place,” and the assur- 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 57 


ance of his gratitude seemed amply to repay her. 

Conrad went to bed with much more exhilara- 
tion than he had looked for. The day, after all, 
had seen something accomplished. Within his 
head, when he punched the pillow, the project of 
running Dr. Page to earth on the morrow prom- 
ised agreeable developments. At the onset the 
interview would be a trifle embarrassing he fore- 
saw", inasmuch as the gentleman on whom he in- 
truded would certainly have no recollection of his 
name ; but the ice would break under a few suave 
references to “My first visit to the neighbourhood 
since I was a boy,” and “My little playmates of 
long ago” — he would put her in the plural, his in- 
quiries could be concentrated gradually. If 
Mary herself were living at Redhill he might re- 
main there. He would intimate that he thought 
of remaining — it would forefend the suspicion of 
impetuosity. 

The sun was shining when he woke. The* 
birds chirruped among the fir trees, and there 
were echoes of old-time music in his heart while 
he brushed his hair — until he fought to draw up a 
sailor’s knot under one of those double collars 
that have led to so much domestic unhappiness 
at the breakfast-table. 

He travelled by the South-Eastern and Chat- 
ham, but he reached Redhill, and smelt the tan- 


58 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 


nery as he searched for an exit from the station* 
A porter directed him to Station Road, and told 
him to “bear to the left.” The townlet seemed 
to him to blend the most unpleasant character- 
istics of Clapham Junction and Hanley in the 
Potteries. He started briskly. The way was 
long, and several times he paused to seek further 
information. Occasionally a carriage passed, 
the occupants with protesting noses. By de- 
grees all the villas and the pavement dropped 
behind him ; the smell of the tannery was fainter, 
and the path on either side was bordered by a 
hedge. From the altitude of a butcher’s cart a 
boy in blue encouraged him with the assurance 
that Peregrine Place was “straight on.” Pres- 
ently the way wound, and a terrace of small semi- 
detached houses with little front gardens glad- 
dened his view. As he drew close he saw “Home 
Rest” painted on the gate-post at the corner. 
Outside, in the sequestered road, a venerable 
tenant, with a velvet skull-cap and silvery hair, 
was pottering around a camera. At Conrad’s 
approach he lifted his head, and regarded him 
with gentle curiosity. The sight of the blue eyes 
and placid face seemed suddenly familiar to Con- 
rad; he felt far-off memories stirring in him as, 
his gaze met the old man’s features, and, doffing 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 59 


his hat, he murmured, with the deference that sat 
so well upon him : — 

“Dr. Page, I think?” 

“PXeh?” said the old gentleman, inclining the 
other ear. 

“You don’t know me,” said Conrad wistfully, 
but louder. “We haven’t met since I was a boy. 
Dr. Page — that’s many years ago!” 

The old gentleman indicated Home Rest im- 
patiently. 

“Next door,” he snapped. “Dr. Page lives 
next door !” 

Conrad retreated with hasty apologies, feeling 
foolish. He would have preferred to stroll 
awhile before repeating his exordium, and only 
the consciousness of being watched by the old 
gentleman who had misled him constrained him 
to unlatch the g^he. 

A neat servant answered that Dr. Page was 
not at home. He was relieved. 

“I’ll call again,” he said. “When do you ex- 
pect him to come in?” 

“Oh, he’s away, sir, he won’t be back for two 
or three days.. Would you like to see Mrs. Page, 
air?” 

He had no remembrance of a Mrs. Page, but 
there was the objection to travelling fruitlessly 
and the thought that a woman would be 


60 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 


ceptible to the prettiness of his visit. He hesi- 
tated — he answered that he would. The girl 
conducted him to a small, cheerless drawing- 
room, and returned to say that Mrs. Page would 
be down in a few minutes. There w T ere antima- 
cassars everywhere, and the cold white mantel- 
piece exhibited the perpetual porcelain courtship 
which has never advanced ; the amorous male still 
smirked inanely, and the simpering maiden 
seemed still to hope. Conrad was much attracted 
by a large album that reposed on an occasional 
table. He sat tempted to unclasp it, and had 
just risen and made a tentative step in its direc- 
tion when he heard the door-knob move. 

The lady who came in seemed to deprecate her 
entrance ; she was evidently timid, and she 
blinked. He thought at first that she suffered 
from some affection of the eyes, but when she 
spoke, he opined that the blinking was due en- 
tirely to nervousness. 

“Mr. Warrener?” she said in a whisper. 

“Mrs. Page,” he began, “I must crave your 
pardon for intruding on you in this fashion. It’s 
very audacious of me because, even when I tell 
you who I am, I daren’t suppose you will recol- 
lect me.” 

Her eyelids fluttered more, and she said : — 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 61 


“Wo — won’t you sit down?” She wore mit- 
tens, and plucked at them. 

“Thank you.” Instinctively he lowered his 
voice, as if he were speaking to an invalid. “My 
excuse is rather unusual — I hope it won’t appear 
to you preposterous. When I was a boy, your 
children and I used to be bosom friends, and I 
found myself in Sweetbay the other day for the 
first time since. I needn’t tell you that I went 
to look at the house, and the desire to — to find 
them all again was very strong. ... I was for- 
tunate enough to learn that you had moved to 
Redhill, so I decided to risk your ridicule and 
throw myself on your forbearance.” 

“Oh, not at all,” she faltered. “I — I’m sure 
I — ” Her nervousness seemed increased, rather 
than diminished, by his address. There was an 
awkward pause. 

“I trust Dr. Page and — and my former com- 
rades are all well?” 

“Oh, thank you, yes, they are all quite well.” 

He wished that Mary’s were not the only name 
among them that he could recall; “All well!” he 
said, forcing a hearty note, “All well! It’s 
strange to me to think of them as grown-up. 
Time — er — brings many changes, madam?” 

“Indeed,” she concurred timorously; “as you 
say!” But she volunteered no news, and he be- 


62 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 


gan to feel that they were getting on slowly; his 
harassed gaze wandered to the china courtship. 

‘‘May I ask if they are still with you?" he ven- 
tured. 

“My eldest daughter is married/' she replied. 
“The others are ... I hope very soon. I — er 
don't quite understand when it was you knew 
them? While we were in Sweetbay, I think you 
said?" 

“Yes," he answered musingly, “when the 
daughter who is married was a little girl, Mrs. 
Page. To think that she's a woman and a wife! 
Why, Miss Mary and I were like brother and 
sister then — how wonderful it would be to meet 
her now !" 

“My daughter’s name is Ursula," she de- 
murred. She blinked fast. There was another 
pause. 

“ ‘Ur — Ursula?’ " stammered Conrad, with 
the precursory sinking of an awful fear. “Miss 
Mary not the eldest? . . . But surely at Rose 
Villa she was the eldest at home — during that 
summer, at least?" 

“I think there must be some mistake," she 
quavered; “I have no daughter ‘Mary/ I think 
there must be some mistake." 

“Good heavens!" gasped Conrad. He was 
covered with confusion. “My dear madam. 


CONRAD IN QUES^ U# HIS YOUTH 63 

what can I say to you? I — -I have been most 
shamefully deceived. I knew the family of a 
Dr. Page in Sweetbay in ’seventy-seven. I was 
assured — I was officially misinformed — that they 
had removed to Redhill. This house was men- 
tioned to me as their residence. I am abased, I 
can’t sufficiently express my regret. Possibly — • 
I’ll say ‘probably’ — my informant was led astray 
by the sameness of the surname and the profes- 
sion, but nothing can excuse an error that has 
caused you so much annoyance. Nothing!” he 
repeated implacably. “I can only offer you my 
profoundest, my most contrite apologies.” 

The lady was now blinking so rapidly that it 
was dazzling to watch her. 

“My husband never practised in Sweetbay,” 
she said. “My husband’s name is ‘Napoleon 
Page.’ We had never seen Sweetbay in ’sev- 
enty-seven. Our house was nort called ‘Rose 
Villa.’ Oh dear no ! I’m afraid there must be 
some mistake.” 

“Obviously,” cried Conrad; “it overwhelms me. 
I shall severely reprimand the person who — who 
is responsible. Permit me to thank you for the 
patience, the infinite courtesy with which you 
have listened to my — my totally irrelevant remi- 
niscences. I — Pray don’t trouble to ring, 
madam!” 


64 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YuvJTH 


His cheeks were hot when he gained the step. 
He walked towards the station swiftly, eager 
to leave Home Rest and Redhill far behind. 
Long after the train, for which he was obliged 
to wait, had started, the incident continued to 
distress him. He smarted anew in the compart- 
ment. He was even denied the unction of feel- 
ing that he had made a satisfactory exit, and the 
certainty that the lady would describe his later 
demeanour as “flurried” annoyed him more than 
he could say in the presence of his fellow-passen- 
gers. To fall into the mistake was natural, he 
argued, but he wished ardently that he had extri- 
cated himself from it with more grace, with more 
of the leisurely elegance that he could display if 
the situation were to occur again. 

Well, he had done with his search for Mary! 
He said he abandoned it in disgust, and was 
still firm on the point when he reached Mow- 
bray Lodge. He began to reconsider packing 
his portmanteaux. For two days he made no 
further inquiry of anyone, and lingered, as it 
were, under protest. Yet in England at least 
he might spend December amid worse surround 
ings than Sweetbay presented now; he owned 
that. From the chief thoroughfares the last 
speck of mud had long since been removed; the 
pinl sidewalks shone as spotless as when he trod 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 65 


them in October. The air was tender, there was 
an azure sky, a sunlit sea curled innocently upon 
the beach. Yes, of a truth, he might fare worse. 
If it were not for the dulness, he could scarcely 
fare better. On the third afternoon, as he saun- 
tered through the High Street, it occurred to him 
that it could do no harm to announce his failure 
to the mirthful postmistress. He did not pledge 
himself to resume his efforts, but It cer- 

tainly was very dull, and if he were more explicit 
she might be able to give him another hint. 

She recognised him at once, and advanced 
sparkling as before. 

“Did you find your friends, sir?” she asked as 
he saluted her. 

“I did not,” said Conrad, “but I intruded on 
an inoffensive household who were perfect 
strangers to me. The Dr. Page whose address 
you very kindly furnished was not my Dr. Page 
at all.” 

“Oh dear! how very awkward,” she said. “I 
am so sorry.” 

“It was awkward, wasn’t it?” he concurred. 
“Of course I threw all the blame on you, so they 
forgave me, but I’m now quite helpless. My 
Sweetbay had closed over their heads, and to 
friends seem to have vanished as utterly as if 
complete the difficulty this family of spurious 


66 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 


Pages arose since. I foresee that as often as I 
make another attempt I shall he directed to Red- 
hill. I didn’t like to tell you before, because it 
makes me sound so old, hut the people I mean are 
the Pages who lived here in ’seventy-seven. I 
beg of you not to jump. Everybody jumps — 
that’s why I have grown so nervous of mention- 
ing the date.” 

Her eyes were full of amusement; she leant 
her elbows on the counter. 

“I wasn’t in the office then,” she said reflec- 
tively. 

“Naturally,” he returned. “You must have 
been in your cradle. I was only a little boy. 
They were companions of my cherub stage; be- 
lieve me, I was rosily young.” 

“There’s a gentleman in the town who might 
be able to tell you something,” she suggested: 
“Mr. Irquetson, the vicar of All Saints’. He has 
been here thirty years, or more.” 

“Really?” exclaimed Conrad, and added, “It’s 
a shame to he beaten, isn’+ it?” 

“Oh, it is,” she agreed; “and he’s a very nice 
gentleman; he’ll be glad to help you if he can.” 

“Well, I think I’ll go to see him; if he has 
been here thirty years, he can hardly fail to re- 
member the Dr. Page I’m talking about.” He 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 67 


glanced at the clock. “Do you think he’s likely 
to be in now?” 

“I should think the morning would be the best 
time, sir,” she answered; “but you might try — 
it isn’t far. If you’ll wait a second, I’ll write 
the address down for you.” 

“You are too good,” said Conrad impressively 
His pulses quickened at the chance. Instantly 
the thought of quitting Sweetbay was forgotten. 
Again he thanked her, and again she bowed gra- 
ciously over her pink blouse as he withdrew. 
When he turned at the doors, she was bowing 
still. 

They swung to behind him, and he wished he 
had reported himself to her three days ago. 
What amiability! He had never seen anything 
to compare with it in a post-office. As he strode 
towards the vicar’s, he was possessed by amaze- 
ment. The experience had an air of the ideal, as 
everybody will admit. Probably the mirthful 
postmistress was the only member of her calling 
ever known to exhibit a pleasant countenance to 
the public, excepting — But the Exception 
merits a paragraph to herself, and as she has 
nothing to do with the story, you are recom- 
mended to skip to the next chapter. 

Excepting a little lady who once brightened 
the ancient post-office of Southampton Row. 


68 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 


The “post-office,” have I said? Rather should 
I say she brightened the district with that sunny 
smile of hers, and the daily flower freshening her 
neat little frock. To watch her, it seemed she 
found long hours “in the cage” the very poetry 
of bread-winning. Dull matrons from Russell 
Square, and tired clerks from Guilford Street 
alike felt the encouragement of her cheerfulness, 
and went on their way refreshed. One may well 
believe she was the unwitting cause of many 
kindly actions in West Central London, for a 
crowd was ever at the counter, and the sourest 
soul of all on whom she smiled must for a space 
have viewed the world with friendlier eyes. 
Often I used to wonder, as I bought a postcard 
and waited for the farthing change, whether it 
was interest in her duties, or the message of the 
daily flower that kept that light of happiness in 
the girlish face. When she vanished, Southamp- 
ton Row was grey. They repainted and re- 
planned it; and built spruce hotels, and pink 
“mansions,” but nothing could make good the 
loss. It was whispered that she had left to be 
married. All Bloomsbury must hope that he is 
kind to her! 


CHAPTER Y 


And after that little tribute, which has been 
owing for more years than it exhilarates me to 
count — and which has been paid with no expense 
to any one who followed my advice — let us over- 
take Conrad on the doorstep, where he had just 
learnt that the vicar was at home. 

The Rev. Athol Irquetson was a sombre-eyed 
priest with a beautiful voice. In his zeal, he had 
studied how to use it — under an eminent actor; 
in his discretion, he suppressed the fact — for he 
knew his Sweetbay. He had also a fine faculty 
for gesture, which his parishioners found “im- 
pressive” — and which they would have found 
“theatrical” had they guessed that for years it 
had been cultivated daily before a looking-glass. 
Why invalidate an instrument? To admiring 
friends he said his gestures “came to him.” They 
did, by this time. He waved Conrad’s apologies 
aside, and motioning towards a seat, sank slowly 
into a study-chair himself. Conrad ardently ap- 
preciated the pose of his hand there, as — a pen- 
sive profile supported by his finger-tips — the 


70 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 


vicar asked, in a voice to make converts: “And 
what can I do for you?” 

Yes, he remembered Dr. Page. Dr. Page was 
dead. But soon it was the vicar’s turn to be ap- 
preciative, for the intruder’s glance kept stray- 
ing to the Canaletto prints that graced the walls, 
and it was a rare thing for Mr. Irquetson to have 
a visitor to whom they spoke. Those glances 
warmed his heart, and a digression melted his 
reserve. 

“There are not many,” he said; “but I think 
my small room is the richer on that account.” 

“Surely,” said Conrad. “If a picture is worth 
owning, it is worth a spacious setting. A mere 
millionaire may buy a gallery, but it takes a man 
of taste to hang a sketch. I have always thought 
that a picture calls for two artists — one to create 
it, and the other to prepare his wall for its re- 
ception.” 

“But how little the second art is understood. 
Of course the eye should be enabled to rest on a 
picture reposefully. The custom of massing pic- 
tures in conflicting multitudes is barbarous. It’s 
like the compression of flowers into bundles that 
hide half their loveliness. The Western mind 
is slowly learning from the Japanese that a flower 
ought to be displayed so that we nwy appreciate 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 71 

its form. I have hope that when they have 
taught us how a flower should be put in water, 
they may proceed to teach us how a picture 
should be hung.” 

Quite ten minutes passed in such amenities. 

“Yes, Dr. Page died iong ago,” said the deep 
voice again; hut the subject was resumed in a 
manner almost intimate; “his wife was living at 
— Malvern, I think. There was — it was com- 
mon knowledge at the time — some domestic un- 
happiness late in life,; or perhaps it would be 
more correct to say that it culminated late in life, 
for, like so many mighty issues, I believe it orig- 
inated in a seeming trifle. He was a man acutely 
sensitive to noise, and his wife was decidedly a 
fcoisy woman. I remember his remarking once 
that if she touched a cup it had a collision with 
all the china on the table, and that a newspaper 
in her hands became an instrument of torture. 
No doubt he could have controlled his irritability, 
but by all accounts his temper grew unbearable. 
However, the news of his death must have been 
a blow to the lady, for he died suddenly soon 
after they had separated. Death is a wondrous 
peacemaker. The gravest offence looks smaller 
in our eyes when it is too late to condone it.” 

“Yes,” assented Conrad; 


72 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 


“ ‘And I think, in the lives of most women and men. 

There’s a moment when all would go smooth and 
even. 

If only the dead could find out when 
To come back, and be forgiven.* ** 

“That is a beautiful thought,” said the vicar, 
“or, speaking more strictly, I should say it is an 
ordinary thought beautified. From one of Owen 
Meredith’s early poems, isn’t it? But do you 
remember those lines of Coventry Patmore’s to 
the dead? 

“ ‘It is not true that Love will do no wrong. 

Poor Child! 

And did you think, when you so cried and smiled, 
How I, in lonely nights, should lie awake. 

And of those words your full avengers make? 

Poor Child, poor Child! 

And now, unless it be 

That sweet amends thrice told are come to thee, 

O God, have Thou no mercy upon me! 

Poor Child !’ ** 

“Oh,” exclaimed Conrad, “exquisite! I used 
to read Coventry Patmore all day. Do you 
know ‘Departure’? — ‘With huddled , unintelligi- 
ble phrase!’ ... Ah! surely his hope was not 
vain — the Posterity he respected will respect 
him. But — but,” he bubbled, “I am so glad I 
came ! Mv dear sir, you enchant me ; your recog- 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 73 


nition of Owen Meredith alone would make the 
interview memorable.” 

“Ah!” returned Mr. Irquetson, with a whimsi- 
cal smile, “there was once a time when I read 
much poetry — and wrote much verse ; and I have 
a good memory. I remember” — his trained gaze 
took in the name, which he had forgotten, on the 
card — “I remember, Mr. Warrener, when I used 
to pray to be a poet.” 

“Do you think prayers are ever answered?” 
inquired Conrad. “In my life I have sent up 
many prayers, and always with the attempt to 
persuade myself that some former prayer had 
been fulfilled. But I knew — I knew in my heart 
none ever had been. Things that I have wanted 
have come to me, but — I say it with all reverence 
• — at the wrong time, as the means to buy unlim- 
ited toffee comes to a man when he has outgrown 
his taste for sweets.” 

Mr. Irquetson’s fine hand wandered across his 
brow. 

“Once,” he began conversationally, “7 was 
passing with a friend through Grosvenor Street. 
It was when in the spring the tenant’s fancy 
lightly turns to coats of paint, and we came to 
a ladder leaning against a house that was being 
redecorated. In stepping to the outer side of 
the ladder, my friend lifted his hat to it; you may 


*74 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 

know the superstition? He was a Varsity man, 
a man of considerable attainments. I said, ‘Is 
it possible that you believe in that nonsense?’ 
He said, ‘N — no, I don’t exactly believe in it, 
but I never throw away a chance !’ ” On a sud- 
den his inflexion changed, his utterance was sol- 
emn, stirring, devout: “I think, sir, that most 
people pray on my friend’s principle — they ‘don’t 
believe in it, but they never throw away a 
chancel’ ” 

He had said it before ; the whole thing was too 
fissured, too finished, for an impromptu; but the 
effect of that modulation was superb. All the 
artist in Conrad responded to it. 

“And when they are sincere?” he questioned, 
after a pause; “for they are sometimes. You** 
walls remind me how passionately I prayed to be 
a painter. And your own prayers, I take it, 
came from the soul when you craved to be a 
poet.” 

“But should I have been more useful as a 
poet? It wouldn’t have contented me to write 
—let us say — ‘The Better Land,’ and more 
minds are to be influenced by simple sermons 
than by great poetry. You think, perhaps, that 
as a painter you would have been happier. But 
perhaps you wouldn’t. We are often like little 
children petitioning their parents for the dan- 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 75 


gerous. I will not suggest that a merciful God 
chastises us to demonstrate our error, but many 
an observant man must have noticed the truth 
that what we have desired most strenuously often 
proves an affliction to us, while the only sunshine 
in our lives is shed by the thing that we prayed 
might never come to pass.” 

“Yes,” said Conrad, thoughtfully, “I have 
seen more than one example of that. But if we 
are mere blunderers beseeching in the dark — if 
we are like children importuning their parents 
without discernment, as you say — isn’t the act of 
prayer futile? Isn’t it even presumptuous?” 

Mr. Irquetson raised his head, his eyes looked 
upward; “No — pray!” he said, and the melody 
of his tone gave glory to a commonplace. 
“Pray,” he repeated, and Conrad wanted to 
kneel to him then, there, on the study floor. 
“One day perhaps you will afford me an oppor- 
tunity to make my thoughts on prayer quite clear 
to you. Pray — but with fervour, and with sense. 
With humility! Sir, I cannot reconcile my faith 
in an omniscient Creator with the idea that it is 
necessary to advise Him that we need rain in 
Rutland. . . . But I’m withholding the little in- 
formation that I am able to give you. I was 
about to say that Mrs Page, so far as I know 


76 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 


lives still at Malvern — or perhaps it was Mat- 
lock; and the eldest girl ” 

“Mary?” interposed Conrad. 

“Quite so, ‘Mary.’ Mary married some time 
before her father’s death, and is settled in Lon- 
don, I think. My wife would know her where- 
abouts better than I, she is friendly with a resi- 
dent who has some fitful correspondence with 
Mrs. Bailey.” 

“ ‘Mrs. Bailey’ is the eldest girl’s married 
name?” 

“Well, it used to be,” replied the clergyman, 
with another of his smiles. “But I was wrong — * 
I should have said ‘Mrs. Barehester-Bailey.’ 
She acquired the ‘Barchester’ after the ceremony; 
I cannot supply its exegesis. The result of six 
months in the capital, I suppose, though it is not 
everybody who can make such a great name in 
London in six months.” 

“Much may be done in six months ; his parents 
gave Keats to the world in seven,” said Conrad. 
“I am infinitely grateful to you for your kind- 
ness.” He rose. “If Mrs. Irquetson should 
mention Mrs. Barchester-Bailey’s address to you, 
and you would have the additional goodness to 
let me know it ” 

“I will drop you a line to-night — or to-mor- 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 77 


row at the latest,” declared the vicar; and he 
scribbled on the card. 

“Good-bye,” said Conrad. “I shall always be 
your debtor for more than the address, sir.” 

“Good-bye,” said the vicar, extending his 
hand; and ‘good-bye’ as he pronounced it was a 
benediction. 

Conrad had been so much impressed — so up- 
lifted by the cleric’s manner — that, instead of 
swinging homeward in high feather at the end 
of his difficulties, he proceeded slowly, in serious 
meditation. It was not until the following after- 
noon when he learnt that Mrs. B archest er- 
Bailey’s residence was ‘Beau Sejour, Hyperion 
Terrace, Upper Tooting,’ that interest in his 
project was again keen. Then there was a little 
throb in his pulses; a little tremor stole from 
the note ; he had annihilated the obstacles of five- 
and-twenty years — it excited him to realise that 
he stood so close to her who had been Mary Page. 

The “B archester,” however, disturbed him 
somewhat. A woman who reverenced apocry- 
phal hyphens promised less companionship than 
he had pictured. . . . Perhaps the snobbishness 
was her husband’s. Tooting? He had a dim 
recollection of driving through it once, on his 
way somewhere. Was it to the Derby? 

Well, he supposed the correct course would be 


78 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 

to write to her and hint at his return to town. 
He wondered whether the signature would 
waken memories in her if she perpended it. Un- 
less it did, the letter was likely to prove a failure 
— he could not indite a very stimulating epistle 
to a married woman of whom he knew nothing. 
Yet to call on her without writing — ? No, he 
must stand, or fall, by the signature. That 
would say everything, if it said anything at all. 

. . . How stupid, in the circumstances, “Dear 
Madam” sounded! 

And what a stumbling-block it looked! 

“Dear Madam” — he wrote — “Though I can- 
not hope you will be able to recall my name, I 
think you may remember Mowbray Lodge. I 
am regretting very much, during my visit, that 
Mrs. Page is not my neighbour. It would have 
given me so much pleasure to call on her, and to 
meet the family who were such very good com- 
rades of mine in the year when this house was a 
school, kept by Mr. Boultbee, and a posse of 
children came down for the summer holidays. 
Perhaps the names of my cousins, Nina and 
’Gina, may be more familiar to you than my own? 
At least those old-time friends of yours have 
shared my disappointment. It is only since they 
left that I have had the good fortune to hear 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 79 


your address mentioned. Will you pardon a 
stranger writing to express this vehement inter- 
est on the part of people whom you have prob- 
ably forgotten? If I debated the matter for 
long, my courage would desert me, and I should 
leave my cousins to make their own inquiries next 
week, when I go back to town. On the other 
hand, if you and your sisters remember us, pray 
believe that none sends kinder regards to you all 
than — Yours truly, 

“Conrad Warrener.” 

“Come, I don’t think anybody can take excep- 
tion to that,” mused Conrad. And he sent it to 
the post, with a line of thanks to Mr. Irquetson. 

On the next evening but one he began to doubt 
if she meant to reply. It seemed to him the sort 
of thing a woman would acknowledge immedi- 
ately if she didn’t mean to ignore it altogether. 
Yet why should she ignore it? Silence would be 
rather uncivil, wouldn’t it — a humiliation need- 
lessly inflicted? If she had reasons for wishing 
to decline his acquaintance, it was quite possible 
to prevent his advancing, and to frame an ur- 
bane answer at the same time. Had he said too 
much about Nina and ’Gina, appeared too much 
in the light of an amanuensis? Surely she had 
the wit to understand? 


80 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 


Four or five days passed before he tore open 
an envelope stamped with the initials “M. B. B.” 
The enclosure began “Dear Sir,” and his brows 
contracted. 

“Dear Sir” — he read — “I was very surprised 
to receive your letter. What a long time ago, 
is it not? It is very nice of you all to remember 
us after so long. I left Sweetbay at the time 
of my marriage, and have been living in Tooting 
some years now. My mother has removed to 
Matlock. If you or your cousins are ever in 
the neighbourhood I shall hope to have a chat 
over old times. Please give them my remem- 
brances. With kind regards — Yours truly, 
“Mary Barchester-Bailey.” 

There were only three wrong ways of begin- 
ning a response — three blatant solecisms — and 
she had chosen one of them when she wrote 
“Dear Sir.” Conrad was disappointed. The 
“fair and slightly pathetic” figure of his dreams 
grew fainter; his ideal confidant didn’t make 
these mistakes. He put the missive in his pocket, 
and drew dejectedly at his pipe. 

“Of course I shall go,” ran his thoughts, “but 
I’ve made rather an ass of myself, taking such 
trouble to find her!” 


CHAPTER VI 


The man to whom he gave his ticket at the 
station of Ealham and Upper Tooting told him 
that he could walk to Hyperion Terrace in about 
ten minutes. He perceived that he would reach 
the house too early if he proceeded there at once, 
so he strolled awhile in the opposite direction. 
The pavements were dry, and he was thankful, 
for he had seen no cab when he came down the 
station stairs, and he would have been chagrined 
to present himself in muddy boots. 

When he estimated that he would arrive at 
Beau Sejour none too soon to be welcome, he 
retraced his steps, and now anticipation warmed 
his blood once more. After all, she was the 
woman who had been Mary Page — it was a piece 
of his boyhood that awaited him. Indeed, he 
was repentant that he had cavilled at minor de- 
fects. By dint of inquiries he found the way 
to Hyperion Terrace. It was new, and red, and 
all that a man who could call a street “Hyperion 
Terrace” would naturally create. 

A very small servant, wearing a very pre- 


82 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YO^JDH 

tentious cap, showed him at once to the drawing- 
room, where “The Soul’s Awakening” met his 
distressed view, on a pink and gold wall-paper. 
He heard flying footsteps overhead, sounds of 
discomposure ; there are houses at which a visitor 
always arrives too early. His nerves were 
tremulous while he sat alone. But Mary’s home 
would have pleased him better if it had been no 
more than a single room, with a iecent etching 
over a bed masquerading as a sideboard, and 
half-a-dozen shilling classics on a shelf. 

“Mr. Warrener? How d’ye do?” 

She advanced towards him with a wide smile, 
a large and masculine woman wearing a vivid 
silk blouse, and an air of having dressed herself 
in a hurry. She wore also, with a droll effort 
at deception, a string of “pearls” which, if it had 
been real, would have been worth more than the 
street. For an instant his heart seemed to drop 
into his stomach ; and in the next an overwhelm- 
ing compassion for her swept him. He could 
have shed tears for her, as he took her hand, and 
remembered that she had once been a dainty 
child. 

“Mrs. Barchester-Bailey — so good of you to 
let me call.” 

“Oh, I’m sure it was very kind of you to 
come!” she said. “Won’t you sit down? . . . 


CONRAD IN QL^ST OF HIS YOUTM 83 


How very odd that you should have been living 
in Mowbray Lodge, isn’t it? Quite a coinci- 
dence,” 

“Yes,” he said, “yes. I wanted a place there, 
and Mowbray Lodge happened to be to let for 
a few months. It was the first time I had been 
to Sweetbay since that summer. . . . Your old 
house looks just the same — the outside at least; 
I’ve not been in it.” 

“Really?” she said. “Yes — does it?” 

“Yes. . . . And the lane looks just the same 
too, until you get to the field; and then — then 
there isn’t one. But perhaps that had vanished 
before you left?” 

“No, there was no change when I was down 
there last, but that’s a long while ago! Horrid 
old place! I’m very glad there’s nothing to take 
me there any more.” 

“Didn’t you like it?” he asked, pained. 

“Oh, it was so slow! I wonder how I put up 
with it as long as I did. Didn’t you find it slow? 
I must have gaiety. People tell me I’m a regu- 
lar gadabout, but — ” She laughed — “one’s only 
young once, Mr. Warrener; I believe in having 
a good time while I can. I say I shall have 
plenty of time to be on the shelf by-and-by.” 

She was very, very plain. It was while he was 
thinking how plain she was, how ruthless the 


j 


84 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 


years had been to her, that the sudden pity for 
himself engulfed him — the pathetic conscious- 
ness that she must be reflecting how hard the 
years had been on him . 

“It can’t be difficult for you to have a good 
time,” he returned, labour edly light. 

“Well, I don’t think it is,” she declared; she 
tossed her large head, and rolled colourless eyes 
at him archly. “People tell me I’ve quite woke 
Tooting up since I’ve been here, and I must say 
I’ve done my best. I must lead. I mean to 
say, if I’d been a man I should have liked to be 
a great politician or a great general, you know.” 

“You could be nothing more potent than Mrs. 
B archester-B ailey. ” 

“Oh, now, that’s very sweet of you!” she said. 
“But I mean to say I must lead. I started the 
Tooting ‘Thursdays.’ You mustn’t think I’m 
just a frivolous little woman who cares for noth- 
ing but pleasure, I’m — I’m very interested in 
literature too. At the ‘Thursdays’ we have lit- 
erary discussions. Next week the subject is 
Miss Verbena’s novels. Now which do you think 
is Miss Verbe^’s greatest novel?” 

He could only assume that she never saw a 
comic paper. “I — I’m afraid I haven’t read any 
of them,” he owned. 

“Oh! Oh, you surprise me. Oh, but you 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 85 


must: they’re enormously clever. Ettie Verbena 
is quite my favourite novelist, excepting perhaps 
that dear man who writes those immensely clever 
books that never offend in any way. So pure 
they are, such a true religious spirit in them! 
You know, Mr. Warrener, I’m a curious mix- 
ture. People tell me that I seem to enjoy my- 
self just as much talking to a very clever man as 
when I’m romping through a barn-dance. And 
it’s true, you know, that is me. But I suppose 
you’re more interested in stocks and shares, and 
things like that, than in books?” 

“Well, I — I shouldn’t describe myself as 
widely-read,” answered Conrad; “still books do 
interest me.” 

“Oh well, then, you must come on one of my 
At-Home days next time,” she said graciously; 
“one of the ladies you’ll meet writes for ‘Win- 
some Words,’ and you’ll meet several people 
you’ll like.” 

“I should be charmed,” he said. 

The servant bustled in, and carried a bamboo 
table to the hearth. As she threw the teacloth 
over it, a cold wind blew through his hair. 

“Do your cousins live in London?” inquired 
Mrs. Barchester-Bailey, with the tail of a wor- 
ried eye on the maid’s blunders. 

“Yes,” he said, “yes, they do. But I haven’t 


86 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 


seen them since I came back. I’m not sure 
whether they’re in town.” 

“Are they married?” 

“Yes,” he said again. “Oh yes, they’re mar- 
ried — both of them.” 

“Where are they?” she asked; “anywhere this 
way?” 

“No; unfortunately they’re a long way off. 
That’s the drawback to town, isn’t it? Every- 
body lives at such a distance from everybody 
else.” 

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said; “one can get 
about so quickly nowadays. What part are 
they in?” 

“Nina lives at Regent’s Park,” he replied, 
“where the fogs are.” 

“Oh, really? Regent’s Park?” She seemed 
impressed. “I was wondering whether she 
would care to join our Thursday debates — we 
Want to get as many members as we can. Two 
of the ladies come over from Wandsworth, but 
from Regent’s Park it would be a drag certainly. 
Shall I put in sugar and milk?” 

“Please.” He took the cup, and sat down 
again — and knew that he had entered on that 
grade of society where there are no more men 
and women, and they all become “ladies” and 
“gentlemen.” 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 87 


“And the other one — ’Gina?” she continued. 

He felt very uncomfortable; he wouldn’t say 
“Mayfair.” 

“ ’Gina lives further west,” he murmured. 
“No, I won’t have any cake, thank you.” 

“Then your cousins are quite high up?” she 
exclaimed. 

“ ‘High up?’ ” 

“They’re quite swells?” 

“Oh!” he shrugged his shoulders. “No, I 
don’t think I should call them that. Too swell 
for me x rather, but then I’m half a Colonial, and 
the other half a bohemian. I haven’t been 
Home long — it’s all strange to me ; until I came 
out here to-day I had no idea London could be 
so picturesque. How glorious your Common 
must be in the summer!” 

“So healthy!” she said promptly; “the air is 
so fine. We moved here from the Westend for 
the children’s sake.” 

“You have children?” 

“Oh!” she rolled her eyes again. “Four, Mr. 
Warrener. My eldest boy is getting quite big — 
people tell me they wouldn’t believe he was mine 
at all, but it makes me feel quite old sometimes 
to look at him. I think it’s cruel of children to 
grow up, don’t you?” 


88 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 

He stifled a sad assent. “Sometimes they 
grow up still more charming,” he said. 

“Oh, now, that’s very sweet of you! Now 
really that’s very pretty! But I mean to say I 
think it’s cruel to us when they shoot up so fast. 
You’re not married yourself yet, eh?” 

“No, I hate asking favours.” 

“What a modest way of putting it! But you 
should. A good wife would be the making of 
you, and give you something to think about. 
Don’t you know that?” 

“I’m sure of it. A man can have no greater 
blessing than a good wife — excepting none,” he 
concluded mentally. “Shall I be allowed to see 
them before I go?” 

“The children? Would you like to? Dudley 
is out, but the others are just going to have tea 
in the next room. My husband isn’t back from 
the city yet, of course. Oh, the city! what a 
hold it does get on you men. As if it really mat- 
tered whether you made an extra thousand 
pounds one month or not !” A trayful of crock- 
ery rattled, and the footsteps of the little servant 
thudded through the passage. 

“You’re quite right,” said Conrad. “What 
does it matter, when one comes to think of it?” 

“Not but what Herbert’s the best of boys,” 
she added. “If it weren’t that ” She hesi- 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 89 


tated, she endeavoured to look confused. “The 
fact is, he’s — he’s jealous, he’s a very jealous 
man. Not that he has any reason to be — not ex- 
actly. Of course I’m awfully fond of him; he’s 
a dear old silly ! But I mean to say, I can’t help 
it when men want to talk to me — now can I ? If 
I get half-a-dozen men round me, even though 
we’re only talking about the simplest thing, he 
doesn’t like it. Of course it makes it awfully 
awkward for me socially.” 

“It must,” responded Conrad ; “yes, I can un- 
derstand that.” 

“I tell him he should have married a different 
woman.” She giggled. 

“Ah, but how unreasonable of you!” he said. 
“Then — if they won’t mind being disturbed — 
I am really to see your children?” 

“Oh, they won’t mind at all, but I’m afraid 
you’ll find them very untidy — they’ve just been 
having high jinks.” 

She led him to them presently, and slammed 
the door behind her. It shook his thoughts to 
the clergyman’s description of Mrs. Page. He- 
redity again, perhaps ! Two girls of about 
twelve or fourteen years of age, and a boy in a 
pinafore were sitting at a table. At their mother 
and the visitor’s entrance, they all took their 
hands off the cloth and stared. 


90 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 

“And so this is the family?” cried Conrad, try- 
ing to sound enthusiastic. “How do you do? 
And will you say ‘how do you do’ to me, my little 
man?” 

Three limp hands flopped to him in turn, and 
he stood contemplating the group, while the lady 
cooed silly questions to them, and elicited dull, 
constrained replies. They were not attractive 
children ; they were indeed singularly uninterest- 
ing children — even for other people’s, whose vir- 
tues seldom strike us vividly. To Conrad, who 
failed to allow sufficiently for their shyness, they 
appeared stupidly personified. “Yes,” and 
“No,” they answered; and their eyes were round, 
and their mouths ajar. Like all children, from 
the lower to the middle classes inclusive, they pro- 
claimed instantaneously the social stratum of 
their parents. With a monosyllable a child will 
do this. It is by no means impossible for a man 
to exchange remarks with a girl from a show- 
room, and at the end of five minutes to be still 
uncertain to what class she belongs. But when 
the intrusive little cub in the sailor suit romps 
up to her, he betrays the listless beauty’s en- 
tourage with the first slovenly words he drops. 

“Have your cousins any children, Mr. War- 
rener?” 

“Yes.” he said, “oh yes, they have three or 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 91 


four each.” He was speculating what individ- 
uality lay concealed behind the vacant fronts. 
Their mother had been no older than the eldest 
when he was sick with romance for her — oh, posi- 
tively “romance,” although its expression had 
been ludicrous in that period! Was it possible 
that these meaningless little girls also had pre- 
cocity and sweethearts? Appalling thought — 
had Mary been so unpleasant? Had he idealised 
a dirty mouth ? 

“I should like to see them. I wish Nina and 
— er — ’Gina would come over one morning to 
lunch.” Her tone was painfully eager. “Or I 
might look them up. Do you know their 
‘days’?” 

“No,” he murmured, “I can’t say I do. I ” 

“Perhaps they’ll come with you next time?” 

“I hope you’ll see them sooner; it’s more than 
likely I go back to Paris in a day or two — I only 
left a few weeks ago. I may remain there 
through the year.” 

“Oh, really?” she exclaimed. “Then you 
have no business in London? Mary,” she broke 
off impatiently, “what is it? What is Ferdie 
fidgeting about for — what does he want?” 

“Jam, ma,” said the plainer of the girls in a 
whisper. 

“What do you say? Do speak up, dear!” 


92 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 


“Jam, ma,” repeated her daughter; “he wants 
jam on the first piece.” 

“Well, give him it then. Only this once, now, 
darling. You shouldn’t tease him so, Mary — 
remember he’s a very little boy.” 

Mary minor leant towards him, and Conrad 
thought she muttered “Little pig!” 

“Then you have nothing to do in London?” 
resumed the lady, as he followed her from the 
room. 

“Quite all that I hoped to do in London I 
have done this afternoon,” he smiled. “As a 
matter of fact, I don’t suppose I shall call on any- 
body else before I leave.” But he saw clearly 
that she wanted to know the women who were 
“high up,” and he was self-reproachful. Dis- 
tressed, he wished that he had made no reference 
to them in his letter. 

“Shan’t you even go to see your cousins?” she 
persisted. “But you say you’re not sure if 
they’re in town? If they are, any day would 
suit me. If they would drop me a line ” 

“No,” he said, “I’m not sure; I haven’t heard 
from either of them since they left Sweetbay.” 
He was at the point of mentioning Nina’s ad- 
dress; he reminded himself that he had a duty 
to Nina too. 

Yet a moment later he succumbed. The re- 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 93 


membrance of what he had written, even civility 
itself, prevented his parrying so keen an aim as 
Mrs. Barchester-Bailey’s. He mentioned the 
address, and he said how pretty the plain chil- 
dren were, and “regretted that her husband was 
not in.” He sat smiling at boredom for five 
minutes longer, and when he escaped at last he 
had the reward of knowing that she thought he 
admired her very much. He had owed her that. 

As he felt the air in his lungs he thanked 
heaven. Well, he would explain the occurrence 
to Nina, who would consider him an idiot, and 
tell her to expect a speedy visit. The rest lay 
with the visitor herself — with her powers to 
please. For his own part, never, never did he 
want to see her again. He walked fast, her 
image still pursuing him. What an exhausting 
woman ! 

He dined at his club and wondered if it would 
be bad taste for so new a member to make a com- 
plaint to the committee. Afterwards he drifted 
into a music-hall, where quailing brutes who had 
been created to scamper on four legs were dis- 
torted to maintain a smirking brute who was un- 
worthy to walk on two. The animals’ sufferings 
diverted the audience vastly, and the applause 
sickened Conrad more than the club dinner. 

And though his disappointment at Tooting 


9 4 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 


may sound a very trivial matter, it continued to 
depress him. He was sad, noi because one 
woman was diff erent from what he had hoped to 
find her, but because the difference in the one 
woman typified so much that seemed pathetic to 
him in life. And to sneer at him as a sentimen- 
talist absorbed by opal-tinted sorrows blown of 
indolence, would not be conclusive. It is, of 
course, natural that those of us who have to 
struggle should set up the Man of Leisure as a 
figure to be pelted with precepts — indeed, we pelt 
so hard at the silver spoon in his mouth that be- 
tween the shies we might well reflect that Ethics 
is often an alias of Envy — but with Conrad the 
leisure was quite recent, and the sentiment had 
ached for years. In his case wealth had not 
formed a temperament, wealth had simply freed 
it. 

Let us accept him as he was. My business is 
to present, not to defend. Were tales tellable 
only when the “hero” fulfilled both definitions 
of the word, reviewers would have less to do. If 
I could draw, a frontispiece should enlist your 
sympathies for him: “Conrad and the Coquette;” 
for that is Youth — a laughing jilt showing us 
her heels, and tempting over her dimpled shoul- 
der as she flies. 

This is where you begin to think me insuffer-* 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 95 

ably dull. I see your fair brow clouding, I can 
see your beautiful lips shaping to say, “Oh, 
bother!” Be patient with me; we have arrived 
at a brief interval in which nothing particular 
happened. It is true that soon afterwards Con- 
rad went to Monte Carlo, but details would not 
interest you in the least. Be gracious to me; 
yield to the book another finger-tip — I feel it 
slipping. Say, “Poor drivel as it is, a man has 
written it in the hope of pleasing me.” For he 
has indeed. On many a fine morning I have 
plodded when I would rather have sunned my- 
self where the band played ; on many an evening 
I have wound my feet round the legs of the table 
and budged not, when the next room and a new 
novel — paid for and unopened — wooed me as 
with a siren song. And all to win a smile from 
You. 

I have thought of you so often, and wanted 
to know you ; you dc Vt realise how I have longed 
to meet you — to listen to you, to have you lift 
the veil that hides your mind from me. Some- 
times in a crowd I have fancied I caught a 
glimpse of you ; I can’t explain — the poise of the 
head, a look in the eyes, there was something that 
hinted it was You. And in a whirlwind of an in- 
stant it almost seemed that you would recognise 
me; but you said no word — you passed, a secret 


96 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 


from me still. To yourself where you are sitting 
you are just a charming woman, with “a local 
habitation and a name”; but to me you are not 
Miss or Madam, not M. or N., you are a Power, 
and I have sought you by a name you have not 
heard — you are my Public. 

And O my Lady, I am speaking to you! I 
feel your presence in my senses, though you are 
far away and I can’t hear your answer. I do 
wrong to speak like this; I may be arraigned 
for speaking; I have broken laws for the hon- 
our of addressing you — among all the men who 
have worshipped you, has one done more? — and 
I will never offend again. But in this breath- 
less minute while I dare, I would say: “Re- 
member that over-leaf, and in every line unto 
the end I shall be picturing you , working for 
you , trembling lest you frown.” Unto the End. 
Forgive me! I have sinned, but I exult — it is 
as if I had touched your hand across the page* 


CHAPTER VII 


Conrad drifted from the Riviera with the rest, 
and lingered through June in Paris; not on the 
left bank this time — in the Paris of the Boule- 
vards and the Bois, where he was a world away 
from the quarter where he had run to clasp the 
illusions of his youth, and stayed to mourn them. 
Although he was finding life pleasant, there 
were moments when he looked at the bridges, and 
felt wistful; but he never crossed one — he knew 
now that he could not walk over the Pont Neuf 
into the Past. 

Nor was it with any definite purpose that he 
returned to London. Amusement, agreeable so- 
ciety, had lulled that desire to revisit old scenes. 
And his experiments had been such failures: the 
endeavour to recapture his fervour as an art- 
student; the ludicrous attempt to revive in cyn- 
ical adults the buoyant comradery of childhood; 
the interest in the little girl whom time had 
turned into the least interesting of women — it 
was with a mental blush that he recalled these 
follies. If he thought no less tenderly of his 
97 


#8 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 


youth, he thought of it less often ; if he was still 
liable to a sense of bereavement, he was now 
idling as conventionally as any other man of his 
class. 

He arrived in London while the sun shone, 
and told the cabman to drive to the Carlton, 
where some Americans whom he liked in Monte 
Carlo had talked of staying. After he had. made 
himself presentable, he descended to the palm 
court, and ordered tea, and glanced round the 
groups that sipped and chatted. His Americans 
were not there — perhaps they had gone to an- 
other hotel, after all. By-and-by he inquired 
about them, and learnt that they were unknown. 
He was hipped, for they had been companion- 
able, and one of the women was very pretty. He 
felt rather “out of it” among the dawdling 
groups. 

During dinner he asked himself to what the- 
atre he should go. He remembered reading re- 
cently that a farcical comedy had scored a great 
success, and decided to go to see that. One of 
his oddities was a reluctance to inconvenience 
people by passing in front of them in a theatre 
after the curtain had risen, so he didn’t dally at 
the table. The piece began at a quarter past 
eight. He had a cup of coffee, and a red grand 
marnier, and slid into a hansom. There would 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 99 


be just time to smoke a cigarette comfortably 
during the drive. 

Hansoms darted everywhere in the pale eve- 
ning — a man and a p»*, a man and a girl, a maw 
going to meet a girl. From Pall Mall the line 
of liveries rolled up endlessly, the broughams 
and landaus flashing glimpses of coiffures, and 
jewelled ears, and flowers. Where a block oc- 
curred in the traffic, a young man, who had 
paused on the curb, in a dross-suit that looked 
rather tight for him, bowed delightedly to the 
occupants of a victoria, and they beamed in re- 
sponse. The encounter was gratifying on both 
sides, for the young man had not often occasion 
to put on a dress-suit, and his Acquaintances had 
not long acquired a carriage. Conrad, who 
missed the humour of the incident, was again sen- 
sible of loneliness in an atmosphere where every- 
body but himself seemed to know someone. But 
as he passed a barrow at the corner of a side street 
he appreciated the humour of a costermonger 
shouting, “Liedy, I can sell you some o’ the finest 
cherries that was ever brought into this coun- 
try!” 

When he entered the house the overture was 
being played, and as he squeezed towards his 
chair a faint hope rose of discerning his Monte 
Carlo companions among the audience. He sat 


100 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 

down, between a lady with a moustache and a 
youth who was trying to cultivate one, and 
scanned the profiles that were visible, but there 
was none he recognised. 

The attendants were still busy; in his velvet 
fauteuil he watched the arrivals almost as eag- 
erly as the Poor had watched them on the pave- 
ment. What white backs the women had when 
they slipped them out of their cloaks! he won- 
dered if it was safe for them to lean against the 
seats. With what geometrical perfection the 
hair margined the napes of their slender necks! 
how did they do it? 

The rising excitement of the overture warned 
him that it was about to bang to an end. His 
programme had fallen to the floor. He stooped 
for it with the idea of looking at the cast before 
the lights were lowered. 

At this moment the lady in the stall next to 
him took out her handkerchief. 


CHAPTER VIII 


As she did so the curtain went up, and showed 
a divided scene. But Conrad was not attend- 
ing. On the right, the stage represented the of- 
fice of a matrimonial agent; on the left, the of- 
fice of an agent who obtained “reliable evidence 
for divorce.” The two careers were followed by 
the same person under different names — his in- 
troductions in the first capacity led to business 
in the second. He explained this soon after he 
bustled on, and the audience laughed. But Con- 
rad did not hear. The lady still held her hand- 
kerchief, a scrap of lawn and lace that was 
scented with chypre — and he had been heaved to 
Rouen and was seventeen years old there, by 
the side of The Woman We Never Forget. 

For in the life of every man, whether he will 
own it or not, there is at least one unmentioned 
woman whom he never permanently forgets 
while he keeps his faculties. She may not be 
the best, or the prettiest, or even the nicest 
woman he has loved — not her virtues, but his 
madness, graved so deep — and he will take the 
101 


f02 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTfi 

impression out sometimes when he has lost his 
figure and his hair, and when a boy who is stor- 
ing experiences on his own account calls him 
“the governor.” No, her qualities have as little 
to do with the matter as the date on her birth cer- 
tificate. A woman isn’t her age, or herself; she 
is what she makes us feel — like art, and nature, 
like a musical phrase, or a line of words, like 
everything of suggestion and mystery. The 
woman her husband hates and her lover adores, 
is an equally vivid personality to both men. 
That to herself she is vividly a third character 
makes no difference to the view of either of them. 

To say that on the few occasions Conrad had 
smelt chypre during the last twenty years it had 
never failed to “remind” him of Mrs. Adaile — * 
to say this would be to imply that he yielded him- 
self leisurely to reverie, and it would sound 
truer than the truth. But the fact is that there 
was nothing voluntary at all in what occurred. 
It was a physical swirl that the smell always 
caused him, and it left him vibrant for a fewt 
seconds with the very craving, the very sickness 
of the time when he had worshipped her. He 
often thought of her, even strummed a song she 
used to sing, but in such moments as these he 
was less conscious of thinking than of feeling. 
iN ormally he looked back at her, with the reflec- 


CONRAD IN QUEST OE HIS YOUTH 103 


tions of a man; when he smelt chypre he was 
near her again, with the tremors of a boy. 

Life is less consistent than fiction, even than 
tolerably bad fiction. “What perfume do you 
use?” wrote Maupassant to a correspondent 
whom he had not seen, but who had made him 
curious. Her answer — if it hadn’t been “none” 
— would have meant more to him than it would 
have meant to everybody, but it might very eas- 
ily have misled him. In fiction, Conrad was 
dimly aware that Mrs. Adaile and chypre would 
never have been associated; it wasn’t faint 
enough, fresh enough ; it wasn’t matutinal enough 
for Mrs. Adaile; to one who had not seen her it 
could never be evocative. Yet — perhaps it had 
been a passing fancy, even an experiment — in 
some days that were immortal to him chypre had 
been her scent. 

The piece became funny by-and-by, and he be- 
gan to listen to it, but though the sensations wak- 
ened by the lady’s handkerchief subsided, the 
memories did no more than doze. Between the 
acts, and when he left the theatre, they beset 
him with full force. As he strolled to the club, 
he surrendered to them. He had recalled Mrs. 
Adaile so often, so often re-enacted scenes with 
her, and mocked himself that he had not played 
them differently, that the episode seemed to him 


104 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 


by no means so remote as it was ; it seemed much 
closer than many episodes that had happened 
since. It was with a shock that in the reading- 
room he counted the years. Was it possible? 
Good heavens! how time flew. It indicates the 
fervour of his mood to say that when he made 
this reflection it had to him a sense of novelty. 

Then she must be — Again “Good heavens!” 
That girl! For she had been but a girl, al- 
though she was married and he had felt himself 
a child beside her. He remembered the after- 
noon when she came to the hotel and he told his 
people that “the most beautiful woman he had 
ever seen” had just arrived. Well, she figured 
still as one of the most beautiful women he had 
ever seen. But was that twenty years ago? 

What a babe he had been! And he used to 
believe himself sapient for his age. . . . Well, 
perhaps in some things! How stupid he must 
have seemed to her for a boy of seventeen! Yet 
she used to confide in him on the terrace. He 
could not have seemed so stupid to her after all? 
. . . Innocent. 

That night on the terrace — always the terrace, 
it appeared! — when she let him hold her hand, 
and bent her face to him, saying, “A mosquito 
has bitten me on the cheek — look.” As if it 
were yesterday he could remember how his heart 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 105 


pounded, and the fatuous words he muttered in 
his tight throat. He wished forcefully now that 
he had had the courage! What atom of differ- 
ence would it make to-day? Yet he did wish 
that he had had the courage. O imbecile! . . . 
But how exquisite it all was ; if it could only come 
over again! 

There were no more than two men besides him- 
self in the room; one of them was reading, and 
the other slept. The silence was absolute until 
a page sped in to bawl the name of a member 
who wasn’t there, and sped forth to bawl for him 
somewhere else. The man who had slept said 
‘"damn” very softly, and turned to sleep on the 
other side. 

Conrad lay back in the deep chair, and let 
fancy reign. There were many gaps, but there 
were moments that made the calendar unreal. 
He remembered intimately things that she had 
said to him — oddly enough, more of the things 
that he had said to her. He stared at his whisky- 
and-potash, and mentally relived the story. And 
this is the story he relived: — 


CHAPTER IX 


The boy came to the French windows paint- 
smeared and tired. He had been to Bonsecours, 
where the monument of Jeanne d’Arc is now, and 
tried to make a study of the landscape from the 
Cemetery. On the boat — they had no dream of 
electric trams then — the immensity of his fail- 
ure had filled him with alarm. A tall, slight 
woman was standing in the salon, with her back 
to him. She wore a pale coloured travelling 
coat, and a hat with a wing in it As his step 
sounded on the terrace she turned, and he forgot 
the landscape. He passed awkwardly, and was 
troubled afterwards by the thought that he 
should have bowed. 

He said to his mother: “The most beautiful 
woman you ever saw is downstairs; I wonder if 
she means to stay.” 

“She is staying,” answered his mother. “She’s 
Grice Adaile’s wife — -the man who made that 
speech in the House the other day. Well, is 
Bonsecours worth going to?” 

“Rather!” he said. He was still thinking of 
the woman’s delicate, wistful face. 

106 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 107 


He thought of it while he dressed for dinner. 
He had thought of nothing latterly but that he 
would be studying art in Paris soon, had wished 
for nothing but to esoape before his parent^ 
could withdraw their consent. All at once he 
would have regretted to learn that he was leav- 
ing suddenly. 

At table she was opposite him; she sat next 
to Miss McGuire. He perceived that they were 
friends and was dismayed, for Miss McGuire 
considered that he had been impertinent to her 
and no longer spoke to him. He recognised 
blankly that the beautiful woman would be told 
he was a cub. 

If he had done wrong his punishment had 
overtaken him : Mrs. Adaile vouchsafed no word 
to him for days. Her disapproval humbled him 
so much that he used to leave the salon when she 
was laughing with his mother and the rest. He 
hoped she would observe he was humiliated and 
be stirred with pity; it seemed to him he must 
awaken her respect by the course he was adopt- 
ing. Incongruously there was an element of un- 
acknowledged joy in his distress; it was not with- 
out its exultation, to think that Mrs. Adaile was 
being heartless to him, to feel that she w^s mak- 
ing him suffer. 

*ut it was with thanksgiving that he heard 


108 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 


of Miss McGuire’s wish that he would apologise ; 
she had forbidden him to address her. He fol- 
lowed her from the dining-room, and begged her 
pardon in the hall. She replied : “You’re a nice 
boy really; I’m so glad you’ve said you’re 
sorry.” He wanted to tell her that he appreci- 
ated her kindness, but he could only falter, and 
grip her hand. It discomfited him to know that 
he was blushing. 

In the afternoon he was sitting on the terrace, 
with a sketching-block on his knees, and Mrs. 
Adaile came out through the windows. She 
sauntered to and fro. He couldn’t lift his eye- 
lids when she approached, but each time he lis- 
tened, tense with the frou-frou of her skirt. AU 
his consciousness was strung to the question 
whether she would stop. 

“May I look?” she said. 

The sensation was in his chest — he felt as if 
his chest had gone. She stood there, amused by 
his symptoms, for two or three minutes, and 
moved away. He was incredibly excited, bound- 
lessly happy until he began to think of the bet- 
ter answers that he might have made. Visions 
of the evening and the morrow dazzled him; it 
was not the same scene to him, not the same sky. 
It does not take a woman six days to create a 
world for any man. 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 109 

By the end of the week he talked to her often 
and freely. At the end of a fortnight: 

“I used to be afraid you’d never say anything 
at all to me,” he owned. 

“I thought you weren’t very nice,” she said. 

“Miss McGuire told you things about me?” 

“She told me as soon as you apologised to 
her, too. I was pleased you did that, even if 
you weren’t in the wrong.” 

“Wouldn’t you ever have taken any notice of 
me if I hadn’t?” 

“I did notice you,” she smiled. 

“Did you? But ‘ever spoken to me,’ I mean?” 

“I don’t know. We shouldn’t have been such 
good friends as we are. I’ve never liked any 
boy as I like you. Con.” 

He ached to tell her how infinitely grateful 
he felt, but he couldn’t find a word. They 
walked up and down together. Perhaps she un- 
derstood. On a sudden he thought how cruel 
it was that the end would come when he went 
to Paris, or when she went to England. In that 
moment instinct taught the lad as remorselessly 
as experience teaches man. He knew that their 
friendship was the merest incident to her, and 
the hurtfulness of the knowledge squeezed his 
throat. 


110 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 

“If we meet again one day, you’ll give me a 
stiff little bow and pass by,” he blurted. 

“Con!” she murmured. “Why, I’ve become 
chummier here with you in a little while than I 
am with people I’ve known at home for years.” 

Still instinct was heavy in the boy. 

He always spent the morning out of doors 
with his brushes; soon he found himself restless 
during the morning, impatient to return to the 
hotel. And he did not know he was in love wit£ 
her. It did not occur to him as possible he could 
be in love with her. He had absolutely no sus- 
picion. 

It was still more extraordinary because he had 
so often thought he was in love, and gloried in 
being so ; when we are very young, half the pleas- 
ure of being miserable about a girl consists of 
exciting comment and pretending to be offended 
by it. Yet no idea of falling in love with Mrs. 
Adaile had crossed his mind. Perhaps it was 
because she was married. Perhaps it was be- 
cause he was for the first time really in love. 

Through most of the stages the boy went with- 
out an inkling of his complaint. One day his 
father said to him, “You’ve caught it very badly. 
Con,” and laughed a warning. The boy was 
startled. He went away bewildered, and asked 
himself if it was true. When Mrs. Adaile sat 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 111 


with him on the terrace that night he was self- 
conscious and husky. F or once her presence was 
scarcely welcome. It rather frightened him, 
though he would have died sooner than admit the 
shameful word to himself. 

Afterwards he did not know how it came to 
pass, but she used to confide to him that her 
husband wasn’t very kind to her. He was in 
London, and she sighed when she referred to 
going home. Her sighs were very plaintive, and 
her self-pity was sincere, but it was nothing *o 
the pity that overwhelmed the boy. 

“People don’t guess how unhappy I am,” she 
said to him one evening. 

“I wish I were a woman,” he muttered; “I 
can never tell you how sorry I am for you, and 
if I were a woman I could put my arms round 
you, and you’d know!” 

It was a beautiful thing to say; but he said it 
badly, because he felt it too much to make it ef- 
fective. No woman should deride a boy’s love. 
It is grotesque, but it is grotesque only because 
it is so genuine. He has not learnt yet to trick 
the truth out. He does not know yet that before 
one co uld make converts to the very truths of 
God they had to be presented with art. 

“Have you any idea when you’re to go?” she 


112 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 


inquired. He was to travel with a friend, who 
was visiting in England. 

“I may get a letter any day.” 

“Are you in a hurry?” 

“No.” 

“I thought you were?” 

He was dumb. 

“I’ve been quite loyal to you — I haven’t said 
a word of what I think to your people when 
they’ve talked of you.” 

“I knew you wouldn’t. It only needs a word 
to make them back out.” 

“I wouldn’t let you go if I were your mother. 
Supposing I did spoil it all for you? How you’d 
hate me!” 

“No, I shouldn’t,” he said. 

“Why? Have you changed your mind, then 
— don’t you want to go after all?” 

“I shouldn’t hate you, because I couldn’t hate 
you whatever you did,” he explained, haltingly. 
“Yes, of course I want to go, but — but I don’t 
want to go yet.” 

They sat down, and there was a pause. In 
the pause, his consciousness of her presence grew 
queerly acute, almost painful. 

“What’s the scent you’ve got on?” he asked, 
unsteadily. 

“Chypre,” she said; “do you like it?” 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 113 


She played with a ring she wore, and showed 
it to him. He touched the ring — and in a tu- 
mult of the spirit was holding her hand. They 
sat silent again. He knew that he ought to say 
something, that she was waiting for him to say 
something, that his long silence was ludicrous 
• — and he could think of nothing to say. He was 
at once tremulous with joy and faint with fear 
— the fear that she would withdraw her hand be- 
fore his effort had wrenched out words. 

She withdrew it. He gazed before him 
blankly. When he was a man and recalled that 
evening, he wondered whether the atmosphere 
had seemed so much a part of his emotion at the 
time as it did in looking back. He wondered 
whether, in his heart-throbs and his sickness, he 
had been acutely conscious of the black shrubs 
in the moonlight, of all the soft sounds and odours 
that stole up on the air. He thought not. Yet 
long after her features, which he tried to visual- 
ise, were misty to him, he could still see clearly 
the position that the two chairs had occupied, 
could have sketched the terrace almost with the 
accuracy of a plan, and felt the night air of 
Rouen in his throat. 

Presently she said: 

“The head-waiter thinks some people who 


114 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 

came from Italy must have brought the mosqui- 
toes in their luggage.” 

“Oh?” said the boy. 

“I believe this is a mosquito bite on my cheek. 
Look!” 

She turned her cheek, and leant forward. He 
leant forward too. Her face had never been so 
close to him; his fingers craved its softness — he 
only realised that, with courage, he might touch 
it with a finger. And the courage was not there ! 

“My hand is cold,” he said, hoarsely. And 
afterwards, too, he used to wonder whether he 
had been excusing his cowardice to himself, or 
to her. 

And yet it was with no abashment that he 
tramped his bedroom later. It was with an ex- 
altation that panted for vast solitudes. The 
whirl of the unexpected was in his being. The 
marvel of her hand, the marvel that she had let 
him hold her hand, uplifted him beyond belief. 
And through all the turbulence of his pulses and 
his mind there was not a carnal thought, not an 
instant’s base imagining. He adored her with- 
out desire, without reflection, without asking 
what he adored. 

When he was alone with her once more dur- 
ing some minutes he tried, trembling, to examine 
the ring again. 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 115 

“No,” she said gently; “it’s wrong!” 

And in the next few days nothing happened, 
one day was like another. 

Then the date of his departure was settled. 
He looked for her as soon as he read the news, 
sought her dismayed because he was to go, and 
twice unhappy because on his last evening she 
would be out. She was shopping, and he met 
her at the corner of the rue Thiers, where the 
horlogerie is. 

“I’m going,” he said; “and my pal can’t stay 
here!” 

“Is it fixed?” Her eyes were startled. He 
had never known her eyes were quite so blue. 

“Yes, he’s travelling at night, and won’t break 
the journey. I’m to be at the station.” 

At six in the morning he was to be at the sta- 
tion — the next morning but one. The train 
reaches Rouen at an earlier hour now, but the 
service was a tidal one then. When she had 
scanned the letter neither of them spoke for — 
it seemed to him a long time. They had crossed 
the road into the Solferino Garden, and he stood 
beside her with his hands thrust in his jacket 
pockets, staring at the little lake. 

“So we shall soon he saying "good-bye,’ ” she 
said at last. 


116 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 

He nodded miserably. “To-morrow evening 
about nine o’clock.” 

“Why so early?” 

“Have you forgotten you’re going to a dance 
with Miss McGuire to-morrow? I didn’t for- 
get ; I thought of it directly I saw the date. What 
time shall you begin to dress?” 

“You don’t know me very well. Con, after 
all!” 

His heart leapt; he pretended not to under- 
stand. 

“Don’t I?” he asked; “why not?” 

“How could you think I’d go out on your last 
night here?” 

“You won’t go? . . . Oh, Mrs. Adaile!” 

And as they moved away under the horse- 
chestnut blossom, it was less dreadful to him that 
he was going to leave her. 

Why did she do it? It could not have been to 
test her power over him; it could not have been 
to wound him wantonly. Who shall say why she 
did it! Often a woman is unable to define her 
motive to herself. Two men came into the hotel 
after dinner — acquaintances both — and she be- 
came engrosed by them, and sent up little peals 
of laughter, and seemed to like their admiration, 
which was presumptuously barefaced. He sat 
tongue-tied in a corner, unwittingly providing 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 117 


equal entertainment for other women in the room. 
Though she knew he was suffering, she threw no 
glance to him. And that evening the boy en- 
tered on another stage — the stage of jealousy. 

The fires of jealousy are always horrible, and 
there is none they ravage more fiercely than the 
lad whose torture we find comic. There is none, 
because no man, nor woman, nor young girl in 
such a pass, is so defenceless as a lad; to none 
other, when love is outraged, does nature forbid 
even an aspect of dignity. His deepest emo- 
tions have an air of sulks. Goading him to per- 
petual blunders is his inkling of a right course 
which he is unable to discover, and his torments 
are intensified by his knowledge that beside his 
suave rival he looks a lout. 

After a clock had struck many times, “She 
makes herself too cheap,” Mrs. Van Buren said 
scdto voce , and madame de Lavardens assented 
by a grimace. The boy overheard, and got up, 
and wandered away. A new misery tightened 
his throat, and burned behind his eyeballs. She 
had been disdained! his world rocked. He was 
degraded, vicariously — for her sake, degraded 
that his Ideal should afford these people the op- 
portunity to disparage her. Resentment beat in 
him ; he longed to vindicate, to lay down his life 
for her — and knew himself a cipher, and that the 


118 CONRAD IN QUEST OF KIS YOUTH 

tempest in his soul would be thought ridiculous. 
Disdained! It was paramount, bitterest. The 
humiliation of neglect dwindled; all his pain, all 
his consciousness was the hurricane of humilia- 
tion that he felt for her . 

“If you weren’t so young I should think you 
were trying to insult me, Conrad. Please don’t 
speak to me any more,” she said next morning, 
when he had made tactless, seventeen-year- old 
reproaches to her. 

Her voice and gaze were cold, as if he were a 
stranger. She rose and left him. The grace of 
the slender figure had no mercy in it as he 
watched. The sun was streaming, and the birds 
chirped loud, and he thought his heart was 
broken as he watched. He sat looking the way 
that she had gone for long after the terrace was 
bare. And heavy hours passed emptily. And 
still he was bereft. And it was his last day here. 

Half of it was lost when wretchedness way- 
laid her at a door. “I’m sorry,” he gulped. She 
bent her head, and moved by him without speak- 
ing. In the group about the tea-table she was 
no gentler. The glare of sunshine mellowed. 
His father claimed him, and talked with unusual 
earnestness of ambition and of life; his mother 
wrapt his arm about her waist, and was pathetic 
and confident by turn. In the chatter of the 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 119 


salon he heard that Mrs. Adaile was going to the 
dance. From herself he had still no word nor 
look. The flush in the sky faded. A relentless 
star peered forth. And it was his last day here ! 

She went. Until the final minutes he could 
not feel that she would go, could not believe it 
until he saw her in the triumphant cruelty of 
her ball gown with the lilies at her dazzling 
breast — saw her giddily with the long gloves and 
the fan in her hands. 

The room was full of animation, of movement. 
The boy sat mute, his gaze fastened on her face. 
The fiacre grated to the curb. Miss McGuire 
asked her if she was ready. “Yes, I’m ready.” 
Colonel Van Buren put the cape about her shoul- 
ders. She turned carelessly, her hand out- 
stretched: “Well, I’ll say ‘good-bye,’ Con; you’ve 
all my good wishes!” “Good-bye, Mrs. Adaile,” 
he faltered. His eyes implored her, but her 
touch was fleeting. The fiacre rattled — she had 
gone. 

And upon the hotel fell a profound and 
deathly silence. He heard nothing. Deaf he 
was, and blind. 

He had seen her for the last time. He kept 
saying it. It seemed unreal — an impossible 
thing — though the harrowing of it was so actual. 


120 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 


His mind wouldn’t seize it, even while the weight 
of it was grinding his youth. 

For the last time! Outside, he bit h?rd upon 
his nether lip, to check its silly quivering. A 
myriad stars glittered over Rouen now ; a breeze 
was blowing across the river. There was the roll 
of wheels approaching. Foolish as he knew the 
hope to be, he held his breath till they rolled past. 
At the piano Miss Digby- Smith was playing 
Ascher’s variations of “Alice.” His mother 
joined him, and sat there with him — and scarcely 
spoke. She took his hand. He thought she 
didn’t guess. 

“It’s late, Con,” she said at last. “Hadn’t 
you better go to bed?” 

“I’m not tired,” said the boy. 

“You’ll come to my room as soon as you’re 
dressed in the morning?” 

“You won’t be able to go to sleep again.” 

“I want you to. Your father’s going to the 
station with you, do you know?” 

“Yes, he told me . . . What time” — the in- 
difference of his tone! — “what time do you think 
Miss McGuire and — er — Mrs. Adaile will be 
back?” 

“Not for hours yet,” she said; “I daresay it 
will be three or four o’clock.” She looked away 
from him. He thought she didn’t guess! 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 121 

Presently the lights were turned out. Peo- 
ple said “good-night,” and bade him “good-bye.” 
Hut for very shame he would have sat alone in 
the salon till it was time for him to start — salt 
there just to see the woman pass through the 
hall. 

In bed he listened, he lay in the darkness hold- 
ing his breath again. He wanted to hear her 
come home — to hear her would be something. 
The wind was rising, and alternately it ricked 
and terrorised him — he trembled lest a gust 
should drown the faint stir of her return. It 
was a long, long while that he had listened. Sleep 
pressed upon his eyelids, but he would not yield. 
Once it was mastering him, and he twitched to 
wide wakefulness in the guilty fear that he had 
missed her. 

The blustering wind, and the clock of St. 
Ouen made the only sounds. 

He saw the door opening with the dim notion 
that he was being called too soon. For a mere 
vague moment, which seemed dishonour to him 
in the next, he beheld without realising her. He 
raised himself slowly on his elbows — and it 
thrilled through him that she was moving to his 
side. 

“I’ve come to say ‘good-bye’ to you. Con.” 


122 CCJNRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 


“Mrs. Adaile!” The name was all that he 
could whisper. “Oh, Mrs. Adaile!” 

“I’ve been horrid to you. Haven’t I?” 

“No, no,” he said strenuously, “it was I; I 
want to beg your pardon. Forgive me! Oh, 
you do forgive me, don’t you? It’s been awful.” 

Her hands were swift and live; he held them 
fast. The ghostliness of daybreak was in the 
room. In the pallor she sat at the edge of the 
bed, the ball gown wan, and the faded lilies 
drooping at her breast. Being so young, he was 
shy that his hair was on end and the collar of 
his night-shirt crumpled. 

“I’m sorry,” she said; “I’ve been sorry all the 
night.” 

Her penitence started his tears, and blinking 
couldn’t keep them back. He wanted to smear 
them away, but he didn’t want to let go her hands. 
He turned his head. He was ashamed — but less 
ashamed than he would have expected — that she 
should see him blub. 

“Don’t!” she said, and he had never heard that 
note before. “You’ll make me hate myself.” 

“I love you,” he exclaimed, “I love you.” 

“Shh! You mustn’t say that, Con,” she mur- 
mured. 

“I love you, I love you,” cried the boy. 

“I know,” she said, “I know you do.” 


OONRAX) IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 128 


And, wonderfully, there was nothing wonder- 
ful to his mind that he had owned it to her. At 
the instant there was nothing but perfect peace. 

“You’ve made me so happy,” he breathed. 

Afterwards that sounded to her a little funny, 
but as she heard him say it she thought it only 
strange and beautiful. Something tenderer than 
liking, something graver came into her gaze as 
she looked down at him. 

“I’ve not been a nice woman to you, Con,” 
she said. “One day you’ll think so.” 

“I shall never think so,” he vowed, “never. I 
deserve you should punish me.” 

But that wasn’t what she had meant. “You 
will think so.” She nodded. “Only you won’t 
mind then, because you’ll laugh at it all.” 

“You’re cruel,” he choked. “Because I’m not 
a man you think I can’t love you really. No man 
could love you better than I do. If I could only 
tell you what I feel! I’d die for you, I’d do any- 
thing for you. Oh, Mrs. Adaile, I shall never 
see you any more — for God’s sake let me kiss 
you once!” 

Quick as her compassion was, the misgiving 
of a boy was quicker — in the dizzy second that 
he saw her stooping to him he wondered how 
he ought to hold her. Then her bosom fell upon 


124 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 

his breathlessness and he went to heaven against 
her lips. 

“I must go,” she said, freeing herself. 

“Oh, don’t,” he begged, “not yet.” 

“I must; I oughtn’t to have come up.” 

“What shall I do?” he groaned. “Oh, it’s 
awful to be leaving you!” 

“I wish I hadn’t made you fond of me!” she 
sighed. 

“Y r ou didn’t; you couldn’t help it. But what 
shall I do? My life’s no good to me; I shall be 
thinking of you, and longing for you when you’ve 
forgotten all about me.” 

She smoothed the ruffled hair. 

“Think of me sometimes when you’ve got over 
it,” she said; “think of me when you’re going to 
do anything that isn’t worthy of you now.” 

“I shall be true to you as long as I live,” said 
the boy, understanding. “Mrs. Adaile ” 

It was odd to her ear that he called her that a 
moment after she had been in his arms. “What ?” 
she asked. 

“When you go down to breakfast, I shall be 
in Paris.” 

“Yes,” she said. 

“Shall you read the papers by the window this 
morning?” 

“Do you want me to?” 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 125 

“Yes — I should be able to know where you 
were.” 

“I will then!” 

“I shall be imagining you all the time. . . . 
What shall you do this evening?” 

“Reproach myself,” she said. 

“No, you mustn’t; what for? Will you think 
of me?” 

“Yes. After dinner I’ll go on the terrace. 
Con, and I’ll sit there alone, wondering what 
you’re doing, and thinking of — just now. And 
— well, perhaps I’ll say a little prayer for you, 
I must go now. Say ‘good-bye’ to me.” 

“I can’t,” he gasped, “I can’t.” 

“Con, I must!” 

“Give me something,” he stammered, “give me 
something you’ve got on!” 

She broke off a handful of the flowers they 
had crushed; she took his strained face between 
her palms, and kissed him twice — once on the lips, 
and, by impulse, on the brow. Then she opened 
the door cautiously. She smiled back at him, 
and stole away into the passage. And in the 
loneliness she left behind her, the boy lay kissing 
her lilies, and sobbing with his great despair. 


CHAPTER X 


Across twenty years a man made an obei- 
sance to a woman for risking what she had risked 
that she might comfort a boy’s pain. Conrad 
got up from the club chair and crossed over to 
the bookcase. Pie pulled out the Post Office Di- 
rectory — and it sprawled open on the top shelf. 
Would he find the name under “A”? . . . 
‘‘Grice Ewart Adaile, M.P., 62 Norfolk Street, 
Park Lane.” And she? Was she alive? could 
she be there, so close to him as that? 

He mourned to think how different she must 
be to-day. The woman had changed, and the 
boy had changed, and though he didn’t know it, 
the town had changed the most. The ubiquitous 
rush and whir of electric trams, the ceaseless 
clangour of their bells beating through the brain, 
had turned peace into a pandemonium. Rouen 
had acquired all the noise of New York without 
any of its gaiety. Telegraph wires and tele- 
phone wires spanned the tops of the churches, 
and a mesh-work of iron ropes obscured the sky. 

He strolled to Norfolk Street the next after- 
126 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 1ST 

noon. There was a half hope in his mind of 
finding a carriage at the door waiting to take the 
lady for her drive. If Mrs. Adaile came out — 
Oh, if Mrs. Adaile came out he would be well re- 
paid; it would be exciting to recognise her, al- 
though she wouldn’t recognise him ! 

But she did not come out. The door was shut 
fast, and no familiar face happened to gaze pen- 
sively over the window boxes. He was disap- 
pointed. In the evening he went to another the-s 
atre. The hero of the comedy was supposed to 
be a man of his own age, and talked about him- 
self as if he were a centenarian. He said he was 
thirty-seven and had “lived his life,” and he 
called the heroine “Child.” His hair was sil- 
vered at the temples, and he depressed Conrad 
exceedingly. 

The situation of Norfolk Street was so con- 
venient, however, that Conrad took to passing 
through it rather often. And though he was 
old enough to know better, he certainly looked 
young enough to be the hero’s son. One day he 
found the windows of No. 62 blank behind shut- 
ters. So the family had left town! He saun- 
tered on, and hesitated, and went back. Here 
was an opportunity to ascertain what he wanted 
to know. He rang the bell, and asked a solemn 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 

functionary when Mrs. Adaile was expected 
home. 

“I can’t say, sir,” said the man; “Mrs. Adaile 
is on the Continent.” 

“Oh,” said Conrad, with a heart-prank. She 
did live! He vacillated — and obeyed a second 
impulse: “Can you give me Mrs. Adaile’s ad- 
dress?” 

The solemn person noted the pearl in the 
stranger’s tie, the silk lining of the coat he un- 
buttoned, and the direction in which his hand was 
travelling. Mrs. Adaile was in Ostend. “Thenk 
you, sir.” He named the hotel, and Conrad pro- 
ceeded to Piccadilly enamoured of temptation. 
How tired he was of London! In any case he 
would go away; why shouldn’t he go to Ostend? 
He had never been there — and he might sit next 
to her at dinner. It would be an absurdity of 
course, but 

The hero of thirty- seven with hair silvered at 
the temples, admonished him from every hoard- 
ing and he took a hansom to avoid his sedate con- 
temporary’s reproof. Entering the club, he 
walked through an avenue of decorator’s ladders ; 
the smoking-room was full of paint and pails. 
What could be more absurd than to remain in 
town? 

He winced as it occurred to him that Adaile 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 129 

might have been married twice. Supposing the 
“Mrs. Adaile” in Ostend proved to be a stranger, 
an unfamiliar person profaning a hallowed 
name? How complete a fool he would feel when 
he arrived! But he would not dwell on that 
contingency. “Far fetched,” he said. Even a 
fate that showered disappointments as freely as 
if they were confetti must draw the line some- 
where. 

He was among the tourists, and the luggage- 
thieves at Charing Cross by ten o’clock next 
morning. When he reached Ostend it was a fine 
afternoon, and the town was baking. By com- 
parison London had been pleasant, so a multi- 
tude of Londoners had flocked to Ostend. With 
trepidation he beheld the hotel that sheltered her 
— what if he were unable to obtain a room in it? 
But no — so far, so good. Fate was, perhaps, 
napping in the heat — a room was to be had. He 
washed his face in No. 17 victoriously, and over- 
looked the scarlet geraniums, and the Faience 
fountain, glistening in a grass plot, and the red- 
striped sun umbrellas that sprouted through the 
little tables. Nobody was visible among the 
basket chairs. A starling’s twittering in a lilac 
bush was the only voice. The number of his 
room chimed with his mood — a happy coinci- 
dence. To the manager’s mind, at least, he was 


ISO CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 

“seventeen” again. Again he stood in an hotel 
bedroom preparing to join her downstairs! Had 
she changed very much ? 

Presently he wandered into the salon, and 
lounged round the reading-room. Everywhere 
it was unpromisingly quiet. A hint of siesta per- 
vaded the hotel. Should he go out? He saun- 
tered through the hall, but the dazzle of the 
Digue blistering in the glare made his eyes ache. 
He went back to the shade, and ruffled news- 
papers, and smoked cigarettes. A child came 
into the scorching courtyard that was called a 
“garden,” and hopped round on one leg, and said 
to another child, “Can you do that?” The star- 
ling twittered imperturbably. Who said Ostend 
was gay? 

Benighted male! the women weren’t asleep, 
they were all changing their frocks again. When 
he woke he had missed one of the sights of the day 
— the “creations” that vied with one another be- 
tween the hours of five and seven. A gong was 
booming. Only the first gong. Good! There was 
time for him to dress before the room began to 
fill. He sought the head- waiter, and inquired if 
a place facing the door could be arranged. The 
head-waiter had house property, and two sons at 
college, hut he was the urbanest of head-wait- 
ers. A novice tips the servants when he leaves 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 131 

an hotel, and, if he is a generous novice, pays 
for attention that he hasn't received; a traveller 
of experience tips them when he arrives, and gets 
the liver wing and a seat by the window. 

The second gong was still reverberating when 
No. 17 descended to dinner. The urbanest of 
head-waiters hovered on the threshold. For 
scrutinising the company Conrad had scarcely 
time to glance at the menu. The doorway was 
as dazzling as the Digue had been: a cinemato- 
graph of toilettes, a succession of audacities — 
only clusters of diamonds seemed to keep some 
of the bodices up. Man formed a shifting back- 
ground to an exhibition of jewels, a pageant of 
skirts and breasts. Still more gowns. The 
humming room was the apotheosis of Clothes — 
until the women sat down, and then it was the 
apotheosis of Bosom. 

She came in late. She wore white satin, em- 
broidered in silver, and a “collar” of emeralds. 
He recognised her at once. There was no hesi- 
tation in his mind — he had expected to hesitate 
— he knew her the instant she appeared. She 
had altered certainly — even pathetically ; the 
girl of twenty years ago was lost; but in the flash 
of the moment the difference in her face startled 
him less than the difference in her figure. A 
shade too stout. Yes, a shade too stout for his 


m CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 

taste ! And — and had her hair been copper col- 
our in Rouen? 

But a pretty woman, nobody could deny it. 
She didn’t look a day more than thirty-fire — 
might pass for thirty now the rose glow of the 
lamps was on her! . . . Well — almost! 

Her table was well in view. She was with 
another woman — perhaps younger, a brunette, 
vivacious — and an elderly man with projecting 
teeth, and eyes like a fish. Adaile? How gro- 
tesque he must have looked making love! He 
had a nose as long as the one in Blake’s portrait 
of the man who built the Pyramids. And he used 
to be unkind to her ! — one could read that he was 
a cold-blooded, unappreciative stick. ... Now 
he was talking to her. On second thoughts, per- 
haps he wasn’t her husband — he displayed the 
projecting teeth to her in so many smiles. The 
other woman’s husband then ! Quite a good chap 
in his way, no doubt; he was doing them very 
well in the matter of wine. 

Would there be a chance to speak to her to- 
night? Abominably hard lines if he had to wait 
till to-morrow, but he wanted to find her alone 
— in the garden, for preference, in the moonlight. 
. . . No — no — thirty-five; but no more, not an 
hour. How beautiful she used to he! She didn’t 
know she was sitting in the room with a man 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 133 


she had kissed. Rather an amusing reflection 
that! . . . Scores of men in the room, though; 
perhaps she did. How sick he would have felt 
to think so once! Where was the splendid jeal- 
ousy he ought to feel this evening? 

“ ‘Dead as the bulrushes round little Moses 
On the old banks of the Nile!’ ” 


He made his coffee last till the party got up, 
and then followed them to the salon. The salon 
did not keep them — they drifted to the hall. 
They disappeared. The hall was a bevy of 
women who had been upstairs to put on hats, and 
were desiring to be taken to the Kursaal. 
“Poppa” was in constant demand. Conrad ob- 
served that all the family men seemed inclined 
to loll where they were, and that all the unac- 
companied men made sprightly departures. In 
the concert-room he found her again, but he 
didn’t find his opportunity. To be sure, he had 
hardly expected one there. Still he felt rather 
hipped the last thing at night as he sat among a 
crowd and the popping of champagne corks 
in a buffet where the casks were utilised as seats, 
and the ladies’ toilettes were as gorgeous — and 
as modest — as the ladies’ toilettes in the hotel. 

In the morning he met her coming back from 


134 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 

the sands with an enormous sunshade, in the 
“early bath” costume; and he met her later wear- 
ing a picture hat in the “after bath” costume: 
also he saw her in the costume she put on when 
dejeuner was over — and still she was unap- 
proachable. If she proved too elusive, he’d be 
tempted to swim after her next day and try his 
luck in the water. But could he be sentimental 
with his hair dripping? And even in Ostend it 
wouldn’t be — Oh, in the wrong key altogether! 

She was scribbling on a picture postcard at one 
of the little writing tables, and there was no- 
body else there, 

“May I remind Mrs. Adaile that I have had 
the happiness of being presented to her?” 

She turned her head, and there was approval 
in the lady’s gaze. There was, however, not a 
scintilla of recognition in it. 

“My name is Warrener,” he said. 

“Oh yes,” she murmured; “I’m so short- 
sighted — how d’ye do?” But he saw that she 
was twenty years away from knowing who he 
was. 

“This is tremendously nice of you,” he ex- 
claimed; “I was afraid you wouldn’t remember 
me.” 

“How absurd,” she said perfunctorily. “Why 
shouldn’t I? We met at ?” 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 135 


“But so long ago. I was afraid, really. I’ve 
been warning myself that you couldn’t be ex- 
pected to remember — and yet I knew I should 
be so pained if you forgot.” 

She made a little amiable movement of her 
hands. He understood it to signify that his 
doubts had done injustice to them both. In- 
wardly he laughed. 

“Is your husband in Ostend, Mrs. Adaile?” 

“No,” she said, “no, he’s in the Tyrol — Inns- 
bruck. I’m here with my sister and my brother- 
in-law. You know them, don’t you?” 

“No, I’ve never had the pleasure. They 
weren’t with you there.” 

“Ah, no,” she said, “no, they weren’t. . . . 
Ostend is very dull this year, don’t you think?” 

“I’ve found it very exciting; I saw you yes- 
terday at dinner, and I’ve been trying to meet 
your eyes ever since.” 

“Really?” said the lady. She allowed him to 
meet them, and looked away, her expression 
vacillating between a pucker and a smile. 

“My courage wasn’t equal to risking a snub 
from you publicly, and you were never alone. 
You balked me last night, you escaped me this 
morning, and you drove me to desperation this 
afternoon. I ought to have known you wouldn’t 
forget, but I always had misgivings, hadn’t I?” 


136 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 


“Had you?” she said. The pucker was get- 
ting the upper hand. She played with the post- 
card. 

“Confess!” said Conrad. 

“I remember you perfectly,” she insisted with 
transparent hypocrisy, “but just for the moment 
I’m fogged where it was we met.” 

“Will it help you if I mention Normandy?” 

“Normandy?” she echoed vaguely. 

“Houen — the Hotel Britannique — a boy who 
was called ‘Con.’ ” 

“Con?” she cried. And the smile had things 
all its own way with her ; for an instant the spirit 
of his youth flashed so close that he nearly cap- 
tured it. “You are ‘Con’?” 

“Still,” he affirmed earnestly. “And you are 
still— ‘Mrs. Adaile.’ ” 

“You are Con,” she repeated, wondering; 
“that boy! And did you remember me directly 
you saw me last night?” 

“No — I’ve remembered you all the time.” 

“Ah,” she laughed reproval, “what a long 
while ago that makes it seem! — the boy never 
told me pretty falsehoods.” 

“The boy never told you half the truth; he was 
a very backward boy.” 

“If we are to be friends you mustn’t run him 
down, Mr. Warrener,” she said; “I was very 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 137 


fond of Con. • . . ‘Rouen!’ Have you ever been 
there since?” 

“No; I was abroad for years — out of Europe, 
I mean.” 

“You were going to be an artist?” 

“I hoped to be.” 

“Aren’t you?” 

“No; I haven’t the artist’s temperament — I’m 
too faithful.” 

She regarded the postcard on the table again, 
and he did justice to her eyelashes. 

“Ostend is going down dreadfully, isn’t it?” 
she remarked. “All the ridiculous people who 
have just got titles have brought them here. 
We’re leaving on Thursday.” 

He sighed. 

“Don’t be foolish,” she said, not too flippantly. 

“Ah,” said Conrad now, “what a long while 
ago that makes it seem! — the boy was not told 
he was foolish.” 

“No one could be so unkind to him — and he 
wasn’t.” 

“You’ll make me jealous of that boy before 
you’ve done. Don’t you believe you could?” 

“I don’t know what you mean,” she declared. 

“You used to take him seriously.” 

“Oh yes, we were capital friends.” 

“Did he deserve your friendship more than I?” 


188 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 


“You’re absurd,” she smiled. Her eyes were 
as blue as they had been in the Solferino Gar- 
den. He looked into them, wishing he could feel 
the despair that had been his that radiant morn- 
ing. 

“Is a wretched boy you only knew for a few 
weeks to be privileged above a man who has 
thought of you for years?” Within an ace he 
had said for “twenty years,” but the blunder was 
nipped in time. 

“You mean ‘hours,’ ” she said. “We dined 
last night at eight o’clock — it’s just four now.” 

“You don’t believe me — you think I’m mak- 
ing the most of a happy accident? What if I 
gave you a conclusive, an overwhelming proof?’* 

“A proof of what?” 

“Of what? That I am constancy itself. Sup- 
posing I told you that my only reason for com- 
ing here was to see you again. What would you 
say to that?” 

“I hope I should answer quite politely,” she 
murmured. 

“Ah, you didn’t doubt me once!” he exclaimed 
with grave reproach. 

“You didn’t tell such tarra-diddles once,” she 
urged. 

“I came here simply and solely to see you. 
Look at me. Will you give me your hand? — 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 189 


I want to repeat it solemnly.” She glanced at 
the door, and yielded him her hand. It was very 
soft and agreeable to hold ; he continued with no 
undue haste: “Now, holding your hand, and 
with my eyes meeting yours, I say that I came 
here to see you — for no one, and nothing else — 
that I had no idea of coming to the place till I 
knew you were here. That isn’t all!” he de- 
tained her hand gently. “For an age I have 
been trying to see you. I knew none of your 
friends — it was awfully difficult for me. Could 
I call upon you and begin 'Once upon a time’? 
Should I write to you ? You might read my note 
in the wrong mood. Oh, I tell you I racked my 
brains! That isn’t all!” — her hand had been re- 
treating again. “The day before yesterday as I 
passed your house — No. 62; you have window 
boxes, the flowers are calceolarias and mar- 
guerites this season — the day before yesterday 
as I passed, I saw the shutters were closed. I 
rang the bell. I deceived your servant, I led 
him to imagine you — you would be glad to wel- 
come me. I wormed your address from him and 
threw myself onto the boat rejoicing. That 
isn’t all ” 

She drew the hand free, nevertheless, and real- 
ising that it wasn’t coming back to him yet, he 


140 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 


concluded, “But it is enough to show you that 
you’ve been cruel.” 

At this moment they were interrupted, and 
she said, “Oh, let me — Mr. Warrener, my sister. 
Lady Bletchworth.” 

“How d’ye do,” said Lady Bletchworth. “Os- 
tend is very dull this year, don’t you think?” 

“I’ve just said that,” Mrs. Adaile told her. 

“It doesn’t matter,” said Lady Bletchworth. 
“It’s a very good opening remark, and I make 
it to everybody.” 

“Won’t you put me up to the correct answer?” 
asked Conrad; “I’ve only just come, and I should 
like to catch the tone.” 

“Most of them say, ‘Oh, my dear!’” she re- 
plied; “but our latest novelty is, 'Souths nd! 
what?’ ” 

“Mr. Warrener’s people and I used to be very 
chummy ages ago,” said Mrs. Adaile. “I am 
afraid to inquire, Mr. Warrener?” 

“No,” he said, “I — I am alone.” 

“He was quite nice in those days,” she added 
to her sister. 

“What has spoilt you, Mr. Warrener?” 

“I find my world so sceptical. Lady Bletch- 
worth.” 

“Not here,” she said; “they can even believe 
Ostend is smart. Can you do a sum? If ‘it 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 141 


takes three generations to make a gentleman/ 
how many shops does it take to make a knight ?” 

“One: England,” said Conrad. 

“I don’t believe he’s spoilt, after all, Joan,” 
said Lady Bletchworth. “There’s hope for him 
yet.” 

“It’s much too early to say that” murmured 
Mrs. Adaile. But the glance she cast at him was 
not discouraging. 


CHAPTER XI 


The rest of the afternoon promised nothing, 
so Conrad bought “Le Marquis de Priola” to 
kill time. It passed away so peacefully that he 
was surprised when he found it was dead. 

After dinner he saw the two women on a 
lounge, and they moved their skirts for him, and 
commented on the visitors. There was the Earl 
of Armoury, wearing a stud as big as a brooch, 
and a malmaison the size of a saucer. He could 
swing his watch into his waistcoat pocket, and 
make the most killing grimaces. To hear him 
sing “Pip, pip! the Lodger and the Twins” was 
to realise that he could have held his own in vul- 
garity with many a professional “turn.” As 
everybody knows, the Duke of Merstham mar- 
ried Flossie Coburg from the music-halls; the 
heir had inherited his mother’s gift. “The best 
of it,” said Lady Bletchworth, “is that his mother 
herself has become too prim for words since she 
has been respectable. She asks bishops to din- 
ner, and does her hair in plain bands. Heredity 
is her cross! Oh,” she went on, “you’ll meet all 
142 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 14 & 

the world and his wife — Ostend-sibly. A man 
brought his wife to the hotel last week, and when 
he went upstairs to bed she wasn’t there. After 
he had searched for her high and low he went to 
the bureau and asked if the clerk could tell him 
wiiere she was. The clerk couldn’t, but said that 
a married lady had just been to him in a fix — 
she didn’t know the number of her room, and 
had forgotten the name of her husband. Please 
don’t smile, I was terribly shocked myself.’* 

Conrad didn’t say that the story was not orig- 
inal, and had been told about town six months 
before. 

Then Lord Bletchworth drifted to them, and 
was tedious. Lord Bletchworth twaddled pon- 
derously. He considered there was a lot of dis- 
graceful bosh being printed about the Service, 
and the Country at large, in the papers just now. 
“My dear sir, an Englishman who had the in- 
terests of England at heart would hold his tongue 
while she slid down hill, and silently watch her 
bump to the bottom.” That wasn’t how he put 
it, but it was the gist of what he said. He added 
that the battle of Waterloo had been won on 
the playing fields of Eton, and he seemed as sat- 
isfied with Waterloo as if it were in the Trans- 
vaal. 

However, he had his uses — he walked with his 


IU CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 


wife when they went to the Kursaal, and left 
Conrad with Mrs. Adaile. 

“How quiet you’ve become,” she said. 

“I am asking myself what to say to you.” 

“Do you find me so hard to talk to?” 

“I find you so hard to convince.” 

“Why try to convince me?” 

“Why did I come to Ostend?” 

“Oh, that was a pretty tale,” she said. “It 
wasn’t true, really, was it?” 

“You know it was true. I’ve looked forward 
to meeting you again for years. I can’t tell you 
how fond I w^as of you. You’re the only woman 
I’ve ever cared for.” 

“You were a child.” 

“And now I’m a man — doesn’t that show, 
doesn’t it prove? Is it nothing to think of a 
woman so long as I’ve thought of you? What 
other man could say to you what I can say?” 

“But you mustnt say it,” she smiled — it can- 
not be written that she “forbade.” 

“Is your life so full,” he asked, “that you have 
no room for my love?” 

“Mr. Warrener, but really ” 

“You hurt me,” he said. “What have I done 
since we parted, to become ‘Mr. Warrener’ to 
you?” 

“Are we going to sit on the terrace,” said 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 145 

Lord B letch worth, looking back, “or are we go- 
ing inside? Mr. Warrener, you play, perhaps?” 

“No,” said Conrad, “I haven’t played here. 
I don’t care much about it anyhow.” 

“Let’s sit down outside,” said Lady Bletch- 
worth. “It’s so hot in there.” 

On the terrace it was very agreeable. The 
orchestra did not sound too insistent, and they 
found chairs where they could watch the people 
promenade without being inconvenienced by 
them. Extremes meet, and Ostend is their meet- 
ing-place. Only a light railing divides the fash- 
ionable world v and the half world from the world 
that works. On one side plod a humble flock of 
wearied trippers, who have had tea “As nice as 
mother makes it,” in a sweltering shop at the back 
of the town. Among the shell pin-cushions, the 
franc souvenirs, they have had tea. All the eve- 
ning they pass and repass with flagging feet, 
wishing they had chosen Margate. On the other 
side, women who were born in the same class trail 
Paquin’s gowns. On the necks of some there are 
flowers that have cost as much as a tripper’s holi- 
day; a diamond in an ear is worth more than the 
price of a tripper’s home. And Maggie from 
Dalston, with three tired children clinging to her 
ten-and-sixpenny skirt, gazes across that slender 


146 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 


rail, and thinks. And her thoughts might be un- 
pleasant to hear. 

A really extraordinary thing was that no one 
but Conrad seemed to be aware that the railing 
bisected two worlds and a half. As for Con- 
rad, his reflections engrossed him so much that 
he quite forgot to attend to Mrs. Adaile. Only 
when he chanced to notice she was looking pen- 
sive in the starlight did it occur to him that he was 
ignoring a situation by which he ought to be 
thrilled. 

For here they were. The stars were twin- 
kling, the waves were murmuring, the lady was 
waiting. It was true that her sister and Bletch- 
worth were in the way, but even allowing for 
their presence this should mean emotion. Where 
was it? On the terrace while he made small 
talk, and on the Digue when they strolled back, 
and as he smoked his last cigar that night in the 
garden, the question in Conrad’s mind was in- 
sistently “Where is the emotion?” 

Because she was still an attractive woman, and 
he perceived it. He was even making love to 
her — to her, to Mrs. Adaile! — and she was not 
adamant. What had happened to him? Where 
were his transports, the spiritual whirlwinds, 
where was everything that he had travelled to 
recover? 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 147 

She had a whim to do fancy work in the salon 
next day during the hour when the women 
changed their dejeuner dresses for the five- 
o’clock-to-seven costumes. He had met her as 
she was passing his door — their rooms were in 
the same passage — and they had gone downstairs 
together. 

“ You’ve told me nothing of your life since we 
used to know each other,” he said, playing with 
a thimble. 

“What would you like me to tell you?” 

“You used to tell me a good deal — if I am 
privileged to remember it.” 

“I'm afraid I did. How I must have bored 
you ! It was rather a shame. But I was in my 
egotistical stage, and you listened with such big 
eyes — Con.” 

“Thank you,” said Conrad. “But I wasn’t 
bored. And you weren’t an egotist — you were 
the sweetest woman I’ve ever met. I was 
awfully sorry for you — so sorry. Only a cub’s 
sympathy, but you’ve had none truer from any- 
one.” 

“You were a nice boy — I’ve thought about you 
sometimes. Are the scissors there? Do look.” 

“If a woman knows when she is really loved, 
you should have thought about me very often,” 


148 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 


he answered, giving them to her. “Are you hap- 
pier than you were?” 

“Let us say I don’t worry so much about be- 
ing unhappy. I suppose it amounts to the same 
thing.” She sighed — and smiled. “Would you 
do this leaf green, or yellow?” 

“I shouldn’t do it at all,” he said. “Put it 
down and talk to me. I remember once when 
you were telling me your troubles, you cried. It 
was one afternoon on the terrace; you had on 
a pale blue frock, and a big floppy hat. I’d have 
given my life to kiss you at that moment.” 

“You mustn’t say these things to me,” she fal- 
tered. She said it more gravely than on the 
Digue; she was not smiling now, and she low- 
ered her eyes — he knew that he might seize her 
hands. 

“I’ve waited for you so long,” he exclaimed. 
“Joan, be kind to me!” 

But his heart did not thud in her silence. He 
held her hands fast ; the doyley that she was mak- 
ing had fallen to the couch. 

At last she murmured, still looking down, 
“How can you care for me? We’ve only just 
met.” 

“I’ve cared for you ever since. If you knew 
how I worshipped you — if you knew what I suf- 
fered when you were vexed with me! That 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 149 

night you sat talking to those men, and the next 
morning when you were offended — I remember 
what I felt as if it were a month ago. I remem- 
ber what you said as you turned away, and how 
I sat watching, praying that you’d come back. 
And then I waited at the door, and begged your 
pardon, and you wouldn’t forgive me. I’ve re- 
lived it all so often. I did love you, darling, 
I did, I did! ... It sounds idiotic: there was a 
song of yours, ‘To-day, to-day our dream is over 
— To-day, the waking cold and grey’ ; I learnt to 
strum the refrain there to — to make me feel 
nearer to you when I had gone. Since I’ve been 
a man I’ve strummed that refrain a hundred 
times, and longed for you — I was strumming it 
years after you had forgotten you ever sang it. 
I’ve thought about you sometimes till my boy- 
hood has been alive in me, trembling. If F aust’s 
chance could have come to me in any year since 
we parted, I’d have said ‘Let me be seventeen 
again in Rouen.’ ” 

“The past is always beautiful. I made you 
very wretched, though.” 

“Rut you liked me a little. Heaven knows 
why! — I was a fool. Still, you did.” 

“Perhaps it was because you were a ‘fool’ that 
I was foolish. That’s all over.” She drew her 
hands from his clasp. 


150 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 


“It isn’t over,” he said. “You shan’t say it’s 
over. The present may be as beautiful as the 
past.” 

She shook her head; “Can we work miracles? 
Can I make myself a girl again, or you a boy?” 

“Yes, if you’ve not forgotten what you felt 
for me. If the memories are not all mine, you 
can even do that. You see I’m a fool still; I — I 
half hoped that you’d remember. . . . Joan, ‘y ou 
were not once so wise’.” 

“Ah!” she said. “If I were younger now, or 
if you had been older then — who knows?” 

“Could you sing that song still?” he asked. 
“Listen.” He opened the piano, and played a 
few bars. “Can you?” 

“Oh!” She forced a laugh. “It was too long 
ago. And what a song besides !” 

“Try,” he pleaded. “Try it.” 

“I can’t remember the words,” she murmured. 

“The words? — 

‘You tell me. Love, that 111 forget you — 

I own it, in our last “good-bye/* * 

I’d be so grateful. Please !” 

“How does it go on?” 

“It goes on — 

‘Our dream has been too sweet to let you 
Remember that I spoke a lie.’ " 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 151 

“Oh yes,” she said, coming forward. She 
hummed. “Let me see! — 

T know the years will crowd above you, 

I know despair must fade away; 

But here and now I know I love you, 

I love you — and we part — to-day!’ 

Is that it?” 

“That’s it; and then there’s what I was play- 
ing— 

‘To-day, to-day our dream is over. 

To-day the waking, cold and grey/ ” 

She nodded; “Yes, yes — 

*What care I Time will — * 

something, what is it? — 

‘The throes that rend my heart to-day?* 

Well, I’ll try, but I’m sure I shan’t be able to. 
I haven’t heard it for years.” 

Then she sat down, and began it; and he shut 
his eyes and tried to think he was seventeen and 
she was twenty. 

The music stopped short. “I knew it would 
be a failure. It’s gone. It was too long ago,” 
she repeated. 


1 52 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 

“It was yesterday!” he cried, and caught her 
in his arms as she got up. 

For a second she held him back from her, re- 
garding him curiously. Regret, tenderness, 
irony were mingled in the gaze she bent on him. 
Like him she mourned for what had perished; 
like him she sought to delude herself that it 
bloomed anew. . . . “It’s absurd,” she said, and 
drooped to him with a kiss. 

As they moved apart, both were disappointed. 
The man thought, “I have spoilt my memory of 
her kiss to me in Rouen.” 

“I adore you,” he said mechanically. 

The woman’s smile was enigmatic as she left 
him* 


CHAPTER XII 


“Ahe you heartless?” he continued; “have you 
no pity for me?” 

It was the next evening. They were sitting 
among the basket chairs and the dinner dresses 
in the garden, and there was no one incon- 
veniently near. Lady Rletchworth had gone in- 
side a few minutes before. A warm breeze bore 
strains of Chopin to them from the Kursaal; the 
little fountain plashed languidly, and a full moon 
had been assisting Conrad to deceive himself. 

“I am not heartless,” returned Mrs. Adaile, 
“I am sensible. And — there are a thousand 
reasons.” 

“For one thing?” 

“For one thing. ... I don’t want romance— 
I want comedy. I want to laugh with you, my 
dear Con, not to be serious.” 

This was difficult to answer, for he could not 
offer to laugh at his grand passion. He sighed. 

“Resides,” she went on, “I couldn’t make you 
happy. It isn’t in my power — you don’t really 
£are for me. You are in love with a memory, not 
153 


154 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 

with me. I’m no longer the woman you fell in 
love with. I’ve changed. Heally I didn’t know 
how much I had changed till you came here. I 
must like you very much to want to talk to you 
— because you make me feel elderly, you do in- 
deed.” 

“You’re unjust,” he exclaimed — and he was 
genuinely distressed. “Not care for you? You 
don’t believe it, you can’t believe that. I swear 
to you ” 

“No, don’t,” she said. “I can imagine all you 
would say. Haven’t I listened to you? Haven’t 
I even . . . tried to make illusions for myself? 
You talk of what you felt for me, not of what 
you feel. You don’t know it, but you rave to 
me about what I was, not about what I am. 
You remember the hat and the frock I had on 
twenty years ago — can you tell me what I wore 
last night?” 

“Is such constancy nothing ?” he cried hurriedly. 

“It would be irresistible,” she said, “if you 
could find the girl that you’ve been constant to. 
But she doesn’t live, Con — she’s gone. I am 
such a different person from the girl you’ve 
looked for that — that I’ve even felt a tiny bit 
jealous sometimes of your rhapsodies to me about 
her. Well? I’m being quite frank with you, 
you see. It’s pathetic, I think. There have 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HfS YOUTH 155 


been moments when I’ve listened to you and felt 
a little pained because you seemed to forget all 
about me. ... I am hurting you?” 

‘'You hurt me,” said Conrad, “because for the 
first time I realise you are different from the 
girl I’ve looked for. Till now I’ve felt that I 
was with her again.” 

“That’s nice of you, but it isn’t true. Oh, I 
like you for saying it, of course. ... If you had 
felt it really ” 

“Go on.” 

“No, what for? I should only make you un- 
happier.” 

“You want comedy?” he demurred; “you have 
said the saddest things a woman ever said to me.” 

She raised a white shoulder — with a laugh; 
“I never get what I want!” 

“It should have taught you to feel for me, but 
you are not ‘wondrous kind.’ ” 

“Oh, I am more to be pitied than you are! 
What have I got in my life? Friends? Yes 
— to play bridge with. My husband? He de- 
livers speeches on local option, and climbs moun- 
tains. Both make me deadly tired. I used to 
go in for music — ‘God save the King’ is the only 
tune he knows when he hears it, and he only 
knows that because the men take their hats off. 
I was interested in my house at the beginning — 


156 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 

after you’ve quarrelled in your house every day 
for years it doesn’t absorb you to make the man- 
telpiece look pretty, I wanted a child — well, 
my sister has seven! . . . Voila, my autobiogra- 
phy up to date,” 

“There is to-morrow,” said Conrad, moved. 

“To-morrow you must give me the comedy,” 
she smiled; “and the morning after, I go to the 
Highlands — and big men will shoot little birds, 
and think it’s ‘sport.’ Did you ever see a spar- 
row die? I watched one once. It was human. 
Like a child. . . . Come on, come on, let’s go 
out!” 

And behold another woman! She had been 
wise, and dejected him; now she was unwise, to 
make amends. Behold a myriad women in one. 
Before half an hour had passed she had told him 
her philosophy was thistledown, that she had 
prated reason only to be reasoned with. And 
she told him so without a word about it — said so 
by the modulation of her voice while they talked 
trifles. 

And Conrad? Conrad had been scrambling 
to the point of friendship, and he slipped back 
to folly. Conrad strove to forget that discomfit- 
ing phrase, “You are in love with a memory, not 
with me.” It made the folly so difficult. 

He could not succeed in forgetting it. It was 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 157 

in his mind next day, coldly a fact. Yes, he was 
making love to Mrs. Adaile because she was 
Mrs. Adaile, not because she was a charming 
woman. He knew that if they hadn’t met before 
he came to Ostend, he might have admired her, 
tried to know her, grown to like her, but that 
he would never have said to her what he had said. 
Nor wished to say it. 

Yet there was the regnant truth that it was 
she. She had the fascination of sharing with 
him his dearest, his sweetest remembrances; the 
radiance of the past still tinged her — in her keep- 
ing lay the wonder of his youth. 

So they ate Neapolitan ices in the morning, 
and she brought down the doyley in the after- 
noon, and they listened to Chopin again in the 
evening. 

It was the last evening. The Bletchworths 
and she were leaving early on the morrow, and 
he was unlikely to be alone with her again before 
she went. 

“I wish you weren’t going,” he said. “How 
horribly I shall miss you! I shan’t stop here. 
Why aren’t you going to Homburg, instead of 
to people in Scotland? Then we might have 
met again.” 

“Are you going to Homburg to be ‘cured’?” 

“I think I shall go there. Or to Antwerp. 


158 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 


Yes, I shall go to Antwerp first. I was there 
when I was a boy. I was happy in Antwerp.” 

“How funny you are,” she said involuntarily. 

“I’ve never found anyone much entertained by 
me. How?” 

“You’ll go to Antwerp, of all places in the 
world, because you liked it when you were a boy! 
Antwerp will disappoint you — too.” 

“You could always stab deep with a mono- 
syllable,” he said, “but you used to have more 
mercy.” 

“I’m sorry I’ve deteriorated,” said the lady 
rather stiffly. 

She leant back in her chair, and a minute 
passed in silence. She gave her attention to the 
orchestra, tapping time with the tip of a shoe. 

“Does it amuse you to say cruel things to 
me?” asked Conrad. “If it does, by all means 
say what you like.” 

“I don’t understand you.” She drooped dis- 
dainful eyelids. 

“What you said was unworthy of you. You 
know it was.” 

“I really forget what I did say. Please talk 
about something else. What is it they are play- 
ing?” 

They were playing Cavalleria now, so he 
scorned to reply to this otherwise than by a look, 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 159 


“I asked you a question,” she said in tones 
of ice. 

“I beg your pardon. They are playing Caval - 
leria Hnsticana . An opera. Composed by a 
young Italian. His name is Mascagni.” 

“You are rude!” she exclaimed. 

“I am human, Joan. You hurt me.” 

Then her sister and Bletchworth reappeared. 
“Perhaps you know a good hotel?” Conrad was 
saying. 

“An hotel where?” inquired Lady Bletch- 
worth. 

“Mr. Warrener is going to Homburg; I tell 
him everybody says it’s deadly dull there this 
year,” murmured Mrs. Adaile. 

It was deadly dull in Ostend, too, during the 
next hour. Both women were rather quiet, and 
Bletchworth was exceptionally wearisome. But 
for the fact that it was the farewell evening Con- 
rad would have seen friends among the company 
and gone to greet them. 

However, at last the orchestra finished, and 
they all got up. A leisurely crowd was flocking 
to the exit, and — perhaps it was the crowd, per- 
haps it was Lady Bletchworth — Conrad and 
Mrs. Adaile were separated from the others for 
satisfactory seconds. 

“Won’t you forgive me?” he whispered. 


160 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 

Even a crowd has merits — her hand rested on 
his arm an instant. 

“It must be fate,” he said; “I always offend 
you just when we’re going to part. Do you re- 
member?” 

She nodded. “I remember.” Her glance 
was very pretty in the moonshine. 

“This won’t be our last talk together?” he 
begged. “What are you going to do when we 
go in?” 

“I suppose we shall sit in the garden.” 

“But — everybody?” 

“I expect so. . . . Don’t let’s keep behind! 
Walk with Lily.” She addressed her brother- 
in-law, and Conrad sauntered beside Lady 
Bletchworth. 

The windows of the Villa this, and the Villa 
that, were thrown wide behind the mass of 
blooms. In the crimson dusk of lamp-shades 
there was the glint of a white gown, the glow 
of a cigarette point among cushions, a bubble 
of laughter. Every minute a dim interior 
flashed to brightness — someone returned and 
switched on the light, a woman took off her hat 
before the mirror. Through one window came 
the jingle of money on a card table; through 
another shouts — Paulette Fleury was singing to 
friends one of the songs that she had not sung 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 161 

at the Empire in London. To the left, the track 
of moonlight on the sea kept pace with Conrad. 

It was more agreeable in the garden than on 
the terrace at the onset. Already it had an air 
of intimacy, the artificial enclosure, with its tes- 
selated paving, and its affectation of rusticity; 
already he was on good terms with it. Curiously 
enough, such hotel gardens, misnamed as they 
are, have a knack of making a visitor feel at 
home, of endearing themselves to him, more 
quickly than acres of lawns and elms. 

Lady Bletchworth wanted a brandy-and-soda, 
and Conrad had one, too; Mrs. Adaile and 
Bletchworth drank champagne. Presently they 
referred to the shooting-box, to the people they 
expected to see there. Almost for the first time 
Conrad was blankly sensible of inhabiting a dif- 
ferent sphere; he hoped they wouldn’t ask him if 
he knew any of the people they were mentioning. 
He got very near to his youth in that moment; 
there was a revival of his boyhood’s dumb con- 
straint. . . . How odd it was! they were all sit- 
ting together like this, and after to-night he was 
never likely to meet her. Front doors between 
them! ’Gina, of course, might be useful; but 
how stupid of him not to have got info the right 
set in town when he came back from the Colony! 
He supposed it wouldn’t have been difficult, with 


162 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 


the money. Londoners boasted that everything 
the world yielded was to be bought in London, 
and it was true — even to dignities and reputa- 
tions. 

“Well, I am forced to admit that I don’t know 
what women go to the moors for,” said Bletch- 
worth. “You don’t take the sport seriously, and 
therefore you are out of place. What do you 
say, Mr. Warrener?” 

“Well, I can hardly say anything,” owned 
Conrad; “I don’t go to the moors.” 

“But if you did, you wouldn’t prefer a grouse 
to a woman, I’m sure?” asked Lady Bletchworth. 

“A man does not go to the moors to talk to 
women,” insisted her husband. “That is my! 
point. Women always want to flirt just as the 
birds are rising. Women are very desirable at 
a dance, but when it comes to birds, or it comes 
to cricket, when it comes to anything important, 
I say, reluctantly, they can’t be serious. That is 
my point — you don’t take the thing seriously. 
Now, at the Eton and Harrow, were you earnest 
about it, had you got the matter at heart? No, 
no; all you wanted to do was to walk about, and 
to have lunch.” 

“A lot of boys playing ball!” she said. “And 
then they take up all the lawn besides. So selfish 
of them!” 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 163 

“Ah!” said Bletchworth warningly, “that is 
the tone that is going to do the harm, that is the 
tone we have to guard against. What has made 
us what we are? What has given England the 
place she holds? I protest, I protest absolutely 
against irresponsible — er — comment. The for- 
eign ideas that are creeping into papers that have 
always had my — er — approval will sap the coun- 
try’s manhood if we don’t make a stand. Joan 
* — I am sure Joan agrees with me?” 

She was leaning back absently, trifling with 
a porte-bonheur on her wrist; the blue fire of 
the diamonds was ablaze. It caught Conrad’s 
glance; from her wrist his gaze travelled to her 
eyes. They told him, “I’m so bored.” 

“Yes, indeed,” she assented, “you’re quite 
right.” It would have been evident to anyone 
but Bletchworth that she had not heard what 
he said. 

There were fewer people in the garden by this 
time. In the knowledge that the evening was 
nearly over, a wave of sentiment stirred Conrad. 
Even her message of comprehension did nothing 
to subdue his annoyance. What likelihood re- 
mained of a tete-a-tete? The evening from first 
to last had been wasted in stupidities. 

Presently another group went inside, presently 
there was no one left but themselves. Finally 


164 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 

Lady B letch worth yawned. He wished fer- 
vently that she had yawned an hour ago. 

“I think it’s time we all went to bed,” she said. 
“You’ve discoursed quite enough, Charlie. Shall 
we see you in the morning, Mr. Warrener?” 

“Oh yes,” he said, “of course. What time is 
the boat?” 

“I don’t know — ten something, isn’t it? Well, 
I’ll say ‘good-night.’ I wish we were staying 
on, really I do — I shall have a racking headache 
to-morrow evening. Are you ready, Joan?” 

“Quite,” said Mrs. Adaile; “I have a head- 
ache now.” 

He was hopeless until she let him see her slip 
the porte-bonheur into her chair before she rose. 

“Good-night, Mr. Warrener.” 

“Good-night, Mrs. Adaile,” he said. 

When he was alone he sat down again, and 
waited for her return; her manoeuvre might fail, 
someone return with her — the bracelet must be 
lying where she had “dropped” it. 

More than five minutes crept by before a step 
sounded. He turned eagerly, and with dismay 
beheld Lord Armoury approaching. The in- 
truder gaped at the view, and stood hesitating, 
with his hands in his pockets. It was an instant 
of the keenest suspense. Would he withdraw? 
No, he lounged forward. He threw himself into 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 165 


the very chair, and stretched his legs across an- 
other. 

Conrad muttered an anathema on him. 

“Eh?” said Lord Armoury. 

“I didn’t speak,” said Conrad frigidly. 

The young man took out a cigarette, and 
opened his match-box. It was empty. 

“Got a light?” he inquired. 

“I’m sorry I haven’t,” said Conrad, momen- 
tarily encouraged. 

“Rotten show!” said the Earl; “where’s a 
waiter?” He contemplated his cigarette with a 
semi-intoxicated frown, and transferred his feet 
to the table. It was apparent that he meant to 
stop although he could not smoke. With his 
change of position he was liable to come in con- 
tact with the bracelet; and Conrad watched him 
nervously, but he did not seem to be discom- 
moded by it. 

“Seen Paulette?” he asked. 

“No.” The “no” of a man who is not to be 
drawn into conversation. 

“Pauly’s a bit of all right,” affirmed the Earl, 
undeterred. “I don’t pretend to be up to all 
the patter, but — wot lio!” 

Speechlessly Conrad hoped the lady wouldn’t 
come back yet. 

“Three hundred a week she refused for a re- 


166 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 


turn engagement at the Empire — told me so her- 
self to-night. That’s Pauly. Got the hump. 
What’s three hundred to Pauly? I told ’em how 
she’d catch on before she went over. Don’t I 
know ?” He winked profoundly. “Look here, 
you’ll see an artist in October at the Syndicate 
halls, that’s — wot hot She’s going to knock ’em. 
Between ourselves she’s got some new business, 
that — well, it’s great! Never been tried. I saw 
her when she was doing the last turn at the South 
London. I said to Arthur, ‘Cocky, that’s a win- 
ner!’ Roberts couldn’t see it. I saw it; I can 
put my finger on the talent every time. She’s 
going to make Marie sit up, my boy — she’s an- 
other Marie Lloyd. Don’t I know? I’ve got 
the judgment, I can spot ’em with one peeper. 
. . . Isn’t there a waiter in this damned hotel? 
I could do with a tiddley. Where’s a bell?” 

“It’s no use ringing,” said Conrad, “nobody 
ever comes. It wants someone to go in and stir 
them up.” 

But now Mrs. Adaile reappeared. 

“Oh!” she murmured. And then, “I’ve 
dropped a bracelet somewhere; I came down to 
look for it. Good evening, Lord Armoury.” 

“A bracelet?” echoed Conrad with concern. 

“Good evening, Mrs. Adaile — a bracelet? 
Crumbs!” said Armoury, 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 167 

“Yes, isn’t it a nuisance! I don’t know how 
I could have lost it — I suppose the clasp was 
loose. I had it on out here.” 

“Let me help you,” said Conrad. In an un- 
dertone he added, “Don’t find it yet. Let’s look 
further off. Oh my dearest, it was so sweet of 
you! I’m in such a rage, I’m so wretched.” 

“Where were you sitting, Mrs. Adaile?” asked 
Armoury, peering about. 

“Over here, over there, I don’t know,” she said 
hurriedly. . . . “Is it still in the chair?” she 
whispered. 

“Yes,” whispered Conrad. “Are you sorry 
you’re going from me?” 

“A little.” 

“To leave you like this,” he sighed, “it’s awful. 
Joan ” 

“Well?” 

“Let me come to your room to say 'good- 
bye.’ ” 

She started. 

“Hallo! Have you got it?” exclaimed 
Armoury. 

“No,” she said, “I — I thought I had.” 

“Joan?” 

“I daren’t,” she faltered. “My maid ” 

“Come and say ‘good-bye’ to me, then. Do!” 

“Find it!” she said agitatedly — “he’ll guess.” 


168 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 


“What’s that?” cried Conrad. “Here it is — 
why, in one of our chairs ! May I — ?” He fas- 
tened the bracelet on her wrist. “Make me 
happy. Come to me!” he begged. “Will you? 
Number seventeen.” 

Her fingers touched his hand. 

“I’m so immensely grateful to you both,” she 
said serenely. 

“Lucky for her we were here!” the intruder 
remarked when she had gone. “One of the serv- 
ants might have pinched it by the morning.” 

“Yes, I suppose it was as well we were here,” 
said Conrad amiably. “If it hadn’t been for you, 
I should have turned in before this.” He 
dropped back into his seat, resigning himself to 
tedium a little longer. 

He lolled there discreetly, making civil re- 
sponses — and gradually he realised that Flossie 
Coburg’s son was not wholly to be blamed for the 
tedium; he recognised that there was a dulness 
of his own spirit. While he countenanced the 
garrulity of a fool, his thoughts were with scenes 
of twenty years before, and sadly the man strove 
to revive in his heart the idolatry and illusions 
of the boy. Oh, for the enchantment of the 
summer when he had called her “Mrs. Adaile!” 
... If he could only keep remembering it was 
the same woman! But never had she seemed so 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 169 


different to him as in these minutes — never had 
he desired so little as now when she had prom- 
ised all. 

The ground floor of the hotel was partially 
dark when he crossed it; a purposeless waiter 
hovered in obscurity. Upstairs, along the pas- 
sage, the tan and black rows of boots, shapely 
on boot-trees, indicated that most of the visitors 
had retired. A drowsy lady’s-maid put forth 
an expectant face, and withdrew it wearily. Con- 
rad felt about the wall for the electric button, 
which seemed always in a different spot, and 
found it. Then he closed his door as completely 
as was possible without turning the knob. 

As he put down his watch he saw that it was 
late, but he knew that it was not yet late enough, 
and his movements were leisurely. He wanted 
a cigarette — the more because he had deprived 
himself of one outside by saying that he had no 
match, but he was reluctant to give the odour 
of tobacco to the room. A superfluous grace, 
perhaps, now that most women smoked? Still 
he was reluctant. He threw down his cigarette- 
case, too, and the rest of the tlA js that had been 
in his pockets. . . . 

He looked at himself ruminatingly in the mir- 
ror, and brushed his moustache. 

One of the lights hung above the pillow — it 


170 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 

was convenient to read by. Presently it oc- 
curred to him that nearly two acts of “Le Mar- 
quis de Priola” remained to divert him. He 
put forth his arm for it, and, stretching, reached 
it. He turned the leaves. . . . Une dame 
viendra de deux a trots . Ah yes, this was as far 
as he had read. 

The effort to give his attention to the play 
grew gradually less. Mournfulness faded, and 
in the next scene his interest was alert. Once 
he laughed. His thoughts were no longer with 
the boy who had lain wakeful through a night 
just to hear her footstep in the hall. 

The wind was rising, and intermittently it 
tricked and irritated him. The blustering wind, 
and the chiming of a clock made the only sounds. 

Again the clock rang out. This time he 
counted the strokes with annoyance. He 
yawned. His interest was wandering from the 
play now. It began to seem to him that Priola 
talked too much. What was keeping her — had 
she reper f ^d her promise? He tossed the book 
aside, and lay watching the door. 

After he had watched it for nearly half-an- 
hour it was gently opened, and swiftly closed, 
and Mrs. Adaile stood on the threshold. She 
paused there diffidently, with downcast eyes. 
She wore a long clinging robe of crepe de chine, 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 171 

veiled partly by a stole of Venetian point. The 
sleeves of the deep toned lace, dividing at the 
shoulders, drooped from her like wings. One 
daring touch of colour, the flame of nasturtium, 
at her breast threw into dazzling relief the gleam- 
ing whiteness of her skin, the burnished gold of 
her hair. She paused, awaiting doubtless the 
words of welcome, of encouragement, that would 
vanquish her timidity. But Conrad slept. A 
respiration too loud to be thought rapture, and 
too faint to be called a snore, smote the lady’s 
hearing. Startled, she looked up ; forked light- 
ning flashed at him from her indignant eyes. 
But, tranquil, Conrad slept. 

What an offence! Wasn’t it enough to en- 
rage the sweetest of women? Put yourself — I 
mean it was unpardonable! 

For a second she seemed about to escape even 
more surreptitiously than she had entered; and 
then a smile, half sad, half whimsical, twitched 
her lips. A sense of humour — how much it 
spares us, how far it goes in life! A little pa- 
thetic that often a sense of humour wins affec- 
tion and the noble qualities get nothing but a 
dull respect. She looked at a pencil-case on the 
table, and stood tempted, her fingers at her 
mouth. Dared she do it! She would not have 
roused him for a coronet — and the creak of a 


in CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 


board, even the scratching of the lead, might be 
fatal. She wavered. She moved towards the 
pencil slowly, stealthily, inch by inch. 

The table was gained. There was nothing to 
write on. A paper-covered volume lay to her 
hand; with infinite precaution she tore the title- 
page. Tremulously she scribbled, holding her 
breath. Where to leave the message, where to 
put it so that it couldn’t be overlooked? Again 
she hesitated. Conrad slept sound, a glance as- 
sured her of it. Again she ventured. An in- 
stant her gaze dwelt upon him, still with that 
smile half mirthful and half melancholy on her 
face. She nodded, wide-eyed — and on the tips 
of her toes crept out unheard, unseen. 

When Conrad woke, a servant was admitting 
the sunshine through the window; his coffee 
steamed by his side. As he sat up — and almost 
before memory thudded in him — his view met 
the front page of “Le Marquis de Priola” pinned 
to the bed-curtain. He rolled towards it hag- 
gardly. On it was written: — 

“Dreamer! Good-bye. There is no way back 
to Rouen.” 


CHAPTER XIII 


“I must say I was very happy on the stage,” 
sighed the Countess of Darlington, lifting the 
teapot. 

The Earl of Armoury’s mother threw up her 
eyes. A shapeless, waddling woman, the Duch- 
ess, with a sanctimonious voice. There were 
elderly gentlemen who, remembering Flossie’s 
agility with a tambourine at the old Pavilion, 
felt reformation to be a sad affair when they 
looked at her. 

“Not ‘happy,’ ” she said piously, “dazzled — 
only dazzled, dear Lady Darlington. Ladies 
like you and I can’t be happy on the stage. It 
goes against the grain with you and I.” 

Lady Darlington pouted. She was provok- 
ingly pretty when she pouted. She had pouted 
at Darlington on the day he met her. 

“But I was happy,” she declared. 

“You weren’t satisfied in your heart; I’m sure 
you always felt there was better work to be 
done?” 


173 


174 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 


“Oh yes, but I hoped to get leading parts in 
time.” 

“I mean purer work,” explained the Duchess, 
wincing; “social, helpful work.” 

Lady Darlington laughed. She was prettier 
still when she laughed. She had laughed at 
Darlington on the day he proposed. 

“No, really not,” she said frankly, “I never 
thought about it for a moment. Do you know, 
Duchess, I’ve always wanted to ask you — didn’t 
you ache to go back to it after you married?” 

“Oh, never,” exclaimed the Duchess; “I was 
grateful to Providence for letting me get away 
from it all. Circumstances made me go into the 
business, but I was never a pro, I mean to say a 
‘professional,’ by nature. My father, the cap- 
tain, died when I was quite a child, and I had 
my dear mother to support.” 

“M’yes,” murmured Lady Darlington, look- 
ing at the ceiling. “You were before my time, 
but of course I’ve heard. . . . Perhaps if I had 
been in the music-halls I should have been glad 
to get away from it all,” she added; “I was in 
the theatres, you know.” 

“The smalls, I think — I mean to say the 
‘minor provincial towns?’ ” said the Duchess a 
shade tartly; “one of Jenkinson’s Number 2 
companies, wasn’t it?” 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 175 

“Lots of people considered it was better than 
the Number 1,” returned Lady Darlington with 
pride, “and the Rotherham Advertiser said a 
voice of such diapason as mine wasn’t often heard 
in musical comedy.” 

“Such what as yours?” 

“Diapason. Won’t you have some muffin?” 

“They always serve me out so,” said the 
Duchess, “but I will have just a mossel.” She 
regarded her hostess anxiously; “I hope you 
aren’t going to be mad?” she said. 

“I am mad,” admitted Rosalind — her name 
was Rosalind — “mad with the longing for auld 
lang syne. If I weren’t crazy I shouldn’t own 
it, because you can’t enter into my feelings a bit, 
but you’re the only woman I meet who ought to 
be able to understand them. Long? Some- 
times for a treat I tell the servants I’m not at 
home to anyone, and I shut myself up and long 
the tears into my eyes!” 

“You cry for the stage? Oh, but, my dear 
Lady Darlington, you mustn’t give way, you 
must be firm with yourself. Think, just think, 
what an example you’d be setting if you took to 
it again! In our position we have the Country 
to consider. The middle classes say, ‘What’s 
good enough for the Aristocracy must be good 


176 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 


enough for us/ We have to consider our influ- 
ence on those in a humbler sphere.” 

“ I’m not going to take to it again,” said Rosa- 
lind. “How can I? Besides, I don’t want so 
much to act — I’ve no ambition except to be jolly 
— it’s the life I ache for. I’m dull, dull, dull! I 
want to be among the people I remember. My 
heart turns back to Dixie. I wouldn’t say ‘thank 
you’ to be with actors and actresses in London, 
in the West-End; they’re only imitations of the 
Lords and Ladies that bore me. I want to be 
on the road with a Number 2 crowd — yes, and 
a Number 3 crowd for preference. I want to 
arrive in a hole-and-corner town on a Sunday 
night and have supper in lodgings, and see stout 
in a jug again, and call the landlady ‘Ma.’ Oh, 
how soul-stirring it would be to call a landlady 
‘Ma’!” 

“Lodgings? Look at your drawing-room, 
with Louis Cans furniture!” said the Duchess 
admonishingly. “You can’t be serious?” 

“Serious? I’m pathetic! Of course I should 
find I had been spoilt for it — the pleasure 
wouldn’t last; the stout would taste sour soon, 
and I should find the landlady impudent, and 
the lodgings dirty; I daresay I should wish my- 
self back in St. James’s Square before I had been 
away a month. But I don’t want to give up St. 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 177 


James’s Square — I only want a week-end some- 
times as a tonic. That’s all I want, just week- 
ends. If I could be Rosalind Heath again from 
Saturday to Monday sometimes, I’d be Lady 
Darlington all the rest of the year cheerfully 
enough.” 

This was the moment when her Idea was born. 
As the idea had consequences, it is noteworthy 
that this was the moment. If she could be Rosa- 
lind Heath again from Saturday to Monday! 
She had never debated the possibility; but why 
not — why not even for a week? She couldn’t 
call herself “Rosalind Heath” again, because 
everybody in Theatre Land knew that Rosalind 
Heath had married the Earl of Darlington, but 
who among a lowly band of players would know 
her face? she had not been a star. All she 
needed for the freak was a confidant. What 
had become of Tattie Lascelles? 

Lady Darlington blushed with self-reproach. 
That she should have to question what had be- 
come of Tattie! She sat, after the Duchess had 
departed, remembering days when she and Tattie 
had been bosom friends. They had shared hopes 
and lodgings; they had told each other their 
peccadilloes, and even their salaries. And now 
she didn’t know where Tattie was? Could St. 
James’s Square have made her heartless? How 


178 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 

had their correspondence died? . . . Ah yes, in 
Tattie’s last letter ages ago she had asked for 
the sum of five pounds “just for a fortnight.” 
But how monstrous of Tattie to feel constrained 
because she hadn’t sent it back! Who had ex- 
pected it? 

On the seventeenth day of December, when 
Darlington, looking a ridiculous object, had 
boomed away in a new car, of which he was in- 
ordinately proud, Rosalind stole guiltily into a 
news-agent’s. She would not meet her lord 
again for a month. Her beautiful eyes sparkled, 
and her cheeks were flushed. She tendered two 
pennies to a vulgar man, smoking a clay pipe 
behind the counter, and asked for The Stage . 
To the happily constituted there can seem noth- 
ing calculated to kindle the emotions in the act 
of buying a twopenny paper in a squalid shop, 
but Rosalind had a temperament, and tempera- 
ments play queer tricks. (See Conrad’s.) The 
tender grace of a day that was dead hallowed the 
damp copy of a journal in which she had for- 
merly advertised that she was “Resting”; the 
touch of vanished hands sent little thrills to her 
heart as her gaze embraced familiar names. 

She went back to the drawing-room fire, and 
read them diligently. Dusk and a footman crept 
in before she discovered “Miss Tattie Lascelles,” 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 179 


but that artist’s announcement leapt to her with 
the electric light. Miss Tattie Lascelles in- 
formed the kingdom that she was specially en- 
gaged to create the part of “Delicia Potts” in the 
maritime musical farce entitled Little Miss Kiss- 
And-Tell f fJ on Blithepoint Pier. The date chosen 
for this perfectly unimportant production was 
Monday, December 22nd. Then Rosalind, who 
was to go to the Marrables, in Leicestershire for 
Christmas, wrote Lady Marrable a note of 
grieved excuse, and scribbled a letter to Tattie, 
which began, “Take two bedrooms in Blithepoint, 
and don’t breathe a word to a soul till you see 
me. 

And though the happily constituted may be 
sceptical again, she felt more joyous than she 
had done for five illustrious years. 

Blithepoint is about thirty-three miles by rail 
from Sweetbay. It is a grey, bleak place, with 
the plainest female population in England. By 
reason of some interesting quality of the soil, no 
wet month can be wet enough to restrain dust 
from swirling in clouds on the first dry morning, 
and there being no protection on the East, it 
swirls for the greater part of the year on an 
animated East wind. Blithepoint is advertised 
as a winter resort. It is larger than Sweetbay, 
and less unfashionable, but the climate, and its 


180 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 

wry-faced women, make it more depressing. 
Nobody is aware how much can be spent on being 
exceedingly depressed until he has stayed in a 
Blithepoint hotel. Rosalind was a shade un- 
easy in the thought that someone among the 
visitors might recognise her; she knew that at 
Christmas eccentric Londoners occasionally went 
down there, and wished afterwards they had been 
economical and gone to Egypt. But she didn’t 
falter. 

She ran away on Sunday the 21st. She had 
put on her simplest costume, and her portman- 
teau told no tales. To make-believe to the full- 
est extent, she travelled in a third-class compart- 
ment. Already she was greatly excited. As the 
train crawled out of Victoria she could have 
clapped her hands. 

When she arrived it was eight o’clock, and a 
bitter evening. The scramble for luggage kept 
her shivering on the platform for ten minutes, 
and then a fly bumped her through the shuttered 
town. It was the hour of local dissipation; in 
the best lit thoroughfare the blades of Blithepoint 
paraded jauntily, ogling a collection of “business 
young ladies” that looked unique even to a pass- 
ing glance. Lady Darlington, reckless for sen- 
sations, envied these roysterers who could feel 
devilish gay so easily. 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 181 

The cab shaved a corner, and rattled into a 
neighbourhood of obscure apartment-houses. 
Her mutinous heart warmed with sentiment, and 
she forgot how cold her pretty feet were. The 
cab stopped. She saw the blind of the ground- 
floor window dragged aside ; an impetuous figure 
appeared, and vanished. The street-door was 
pulled wide, and a girl with a cloud of hair, and 
a string of barbaric beads dangling to the waist, 
flew down the steps and hugged her. 

“You trump! You’ve really come!” 

“You duck! How jolly to see you!” 

“ ’Ere, two bob, missie,” said the flyman, 
“when you’ve done canoodling.” 

Xfrey ran into the parlour, and laughed at 
each other in the gaslight. 

“Take your things off,” said Tattie, “let me 
help you! I hope you’ll like the diggings. I 
wrote to the swellest address I could hear of, 
when I got your letter.” 

“But you shouldn’t have. What for?” 

“Well, for you!” 

“I wanted everything just as it used to be. 
That was it.” 

“How funny! But I don’t suppose these will 
strike you as very swagger after what you’ve got 
at home.” 

“They don’t.” 


182 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 


“Won’t they be good enough?” 

“ They’re heavenly. Oh, Tattie, how good it 
is to be back! Did anybody bring in my trunk? 
Tn the Shade of the Palm,’ and a ‘Vocal Folio’ 
on the piano! And professional photographs on 
the shelf. Oh, let me see the photographs ! ‘To 
Mrs. Cheney from Miss Bijou Chamberlain — 
wishing you a Merry Christmas.’ Who is she?” 

“She was here last week — a Variety artist. 
She seems to have been comfortable, as she gave 
the landlady her photograph. Are you ready 
for supper?” 

“Stout?” 

“Of course.” 

“In a jug?” 

“Well, I thought after what you had come 
from I had better order Guinness.” 

For a moment Rosalind looked downcast. 
“Ah well, never mind,” she said; “we’ll have it 
in a jug to-morrow.” 

They drew their chairs to the ham-and-beef, 
and the landlady brought in the Guinness. 

“Good evening, Ma,” said Rosalind, with 
youth in her bosom. 

“Good evening, my dear,” said Mrs. Cheney. 
“You’ll be glad of your supper, I daresay, after 
your journey?” She put comestibles on the 
table in three paper bags. “I was meaning to 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 183 

tell you, Miss Lascelles, that if you’d like a bit 
of something hot in the evening when you come 
back from the show, you can have it. I’m not 
one to fuss about hotting something up. Sun- 
days we let the fire out, but in the week you can 
have it and welcome.” 

“Good business!” said Miss Lascelles. “In 
some places you ‘get it hot’ if you ask for it.” 

“By rights some places shouldn’t take profes- 
sionals,” returned Mrs. Cheney. “I’ve ’eard 
many tales. Miss Chamberlain — her on the 
mantelpiece — was telling me that where she was 
in Brighton they wouldn’t allow her to have her 
uncle in to see her. Such a quiet, ladylike gal, 
too!” 

“Can such things be?” cried Rosalind. “Is a 
poor girl to be cut off from her own flesh and 
blood because she’s in diggings ?” 

“Ah, I don’t wonder at your asking!” said 
Mrs. Cheney. “Not, mind you,” she added, 
“but what letting lodgings over a number of 
years makes one a bit suspicious of uncles. I’ve 
known a gentleman brought to these very rooms 
after the show on three different Monday eve- 
nings as the uncle of three different young ladies. 
And dreadful taken aback he was when he see 
me each time!” 


184* CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 


“I’m afraid those were flighty girls,” said 
Rosalind severely. 

“Untruthful they was,” said Mrs. Cheney, 
“and so I told ’em. I say nothing about visitors, 
I’m not that evil-minded. So long as the lady 
pays a bit extra for the gas, and the gentleman 
don’t slam the door when he goes, I like to think 
well of everyone. But I ’ate lies.” 

She drew the cork, and retired; and Rosalind 
said, “Well, what about the show, Tat? What 
sort of part have you got?” 

“The part’s rather good,” said Miss Lascelles. 

“Hurrah! What screw?” 

“Rotten — thirty-five shillings. I had to take 
what I could get; I’ve been out a long time. 
They’re paying awful salaries in this crowd; the 
chorus only get about fifteen bob, I believe — < 
they’re half of them novices.” 

“I say! Whose crowd is it?” 

“It’s a Syndicate; nobody ever heard of it be- 
fore. And the Tenor has such a cold he could 
hardly speak at the dress-rehearsal last night — 
goodness knows how he’s going to sing to-mor- 
row.” 

“Who’s your principal woman?” 

“She has backed out; they’ve put somebody 
else into the part at the last minute. And the 
scenery has still to come down — it’s a bit of a 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 185 


muddle all round. I wish I could have got into 
a better thing, but I was so hard up — you ought 
to have seen where I was lodging! I tried to 
get shopped last month as an Extra. That 
speaks!” 

“An Extra? No? Tat! why didn’t you 
write to me?” exclaimed Rosalind reproachfully. 

“Oh, I don’t know. I heard the ‘great’ Miss 
Hayward wanted thirty Extra ladies to go on 
in the ball scene. It was twenty-five bob a week 
— she wanted picked women — it would have just 
done me. Lil Rayburn lent me her little squir- 
rel coat, and a black velvet hat. I tell you I 
looked a treat when I went down! There was 
three hundred and forty girls waiting; we were 
sent across the stage thirty at the time. The 
great Hayward sat in the stalls, with her pince- 
nez up. ‘You!’ she said, pointing; ‘the one in 
the squirrel coat.’ So I w T ent to her. ‘I think 
you’ll do,’ she drawled; ‘you know what the 
money is?’ ‘Twenty-five, Miss Hayward,’ I 
said, ‘isn’t it?’ ‘No, a guinea,’ she said; ‘it 
doesn’t matter to you! ‘Thank you,’ I said, 
‘I’ve got to keep myself out of my salary — I 
haven’t got a man, and a flat!’ Potter, the 
agent, was in an awful stew — ‘Oh, you shouldn’t 
have spoken to Miss Hayward like that!’ ‘To 
hell !’ I said.” 


186 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 

“Cat!” cried Rosalind. “Because you were 
well-dressed?” 

“Yes; and if I had gone shabby, she wouldn’t 
have noticed me at all. ... You know I’ve been 
in the Variety business since you saw me?” 

“The music-halls! You haven’t?” 

“Straight! I was one of the Four Sisters 
Tarantelle. Jolly good money — I got five 
pounds a week when we worked two shows a 
night; I never got less than three ten. I can’t 
get it on the stage.” 

“Why did you give them up? But the tips 
are very heavy, aren’t they?” 

“They weren’t heavy for me, I didn’t tip any- 
body except the dresser. Chloe made the en- 
gagements, so Chloe could pay the tips. Trust 
this child! What does make you sick in that 
business is the comedians, with the red noses 
and the umbrellas — they’re always after you. 
There was a little brute in one show — his wife 
was in the bill, too; she did sentimental ballads. 
Well! how he could let her travel I don’t know. 
It was her last week, but she wasn’t fit to be 
working so long, we almost expected any 

night And there he was after me all the 

time! ‘I shall write to you, Tattie — I see you go 
to Balham, and Walham Greene next week.’ 
‘Who gave you leave to call me “Tattie?” ’ I 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 187 

said; ‘You low cur, I wish I was a man, to give 
you a good hiding.’ I did pity his wife. She never 
spoke to me — she used to pass me in the wings 
with her head turned away; I suppose she 
thought I was as bad as lie was. I said to her 
one evening when she was ill, ‘Can I get you any- 
thing, Miss ’ I forget what her name was. 

‘No, I thank you. Miss Tarantelle,’ she said — 
like that; wouldn’t look at me! I was so sorry 
for her. Poor little woman, what a life!” 

Rosalind shuddered. After a pause, she 
said : — 

“You’re well out of it, dear.” 

“Except for the money. I expect I’ll go back 
to it as soon as I can. I had a contract for a 
year — they wanted the option of renewing for 
another year.” 

“They were to have the option?” 

“Yes — all on their side; I didn’t think it was 
good enough to sign that. So I said I’d like to, 
but I was going to be married at the end of the 
summer.” 

“You weren’t really?” 

“Not much! No marriage for me — not in 
the profession anyhow! — but lots of them think 
a contract doesn’t bind you any more if you 
marry. Lil Rayburn put me up to that dodge. 
She lent me her song when the Tarantelles 


188 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 


wanted me — it was a great concession: her big 
success! Whenever she doesn’t want to sign an 
option and is afraid to refuse point-blank, she 
looks bashful and says she’s going to be mar- 
ried at the end of the summer. She has been 
going to be married ‘at the end of the summer’ 
for the last nine years.” 

They turned to the fire, and lit cigarettes — 
Rosalind’s; she had remembered to put a hun- 
dred in her trunk. 

“ ‘What is the use of loving a girl 
If the girl don’t love youV ” 

hummed Tattie. The song was just published. 
“They are fine cigarettes! 

‘What is the use of loving a girl 

When you know she don’t want ye r toV 


Of course, you have the best of everything now. 
It does seem curious.” 

“My having the best of everything?” 

“No, your wanting the worst. 

‘What if she’s fair beyond all compare. 

And what if her eyes are blue * 


F ancy living in your style, and coming to rooms 
like these for fun!” 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 189 

“Oh, Tattie,” said Rosalind, “that’s just what 
I did come for! I haven’t any fun at home.” 

“But I thought in Society they had no end of 
a good time?” 

“So they do, in a way, but it’s the wrong way 
for me — I never rehearsed for it, I’m not easy 
in the part; I wasn’t meant for high-class com- 
edy. And I miss you — I’ve no pal now.” 

“T’ve missed you , I can tell you. Oh, the tour 
after you left, wasn’t that damn dull! The girl 
I lived with was so off — common. Well, you 
can tell Fm a perfect lady — I just said 'damn’ — 
but I usedn’t to, did I? Remember? Good- 
hearted girl, but she was so horrid at table. And 
under that silk blouse — all anyhow! Not that 
I like to see a girl with too smart underlinen, I 
always think it looks fishy; but hers was — well, 
if she had been run over one day when we were 
out, I’d have been ashamed to own her !” 

“Let’s go and look up some of the company, 
shall we?” said Rosalind. “What name had I 
better have?” 

“What’s the matter with 'Heath’? There are 
plenty of 'Miss Heaths’ about.” 

“Yes, but you’re sure to let the 'Rosalind’ 
slip, and that will give me away. Introduce me 
as ‘Miss Daintree.’ Do you know where any of 
the women are staying?” 


190 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 

“We’ll find them on the pier. We always 
make for the pier on Sunday evenings when 
there’s a concert; it’s something to do. I sup- 
pose I’m to say you’re in the profession?” 

“I’m an actress out of an engagement,” as- 
sented Rosalind, throwing her cigarette in the 
fender. “Make haste, or we shall be too late!” 

The boards of Little Miss Kiss-and-T ell were 
big outside the pier. At the turnstile Miss Las- 
celles nodded towards them, saying, “In the 
company.” The man answered, “All right. 
Miss; come in through the gate, then.” At the 
pay-box of the theatre she showed her card, say- 
ing, “Can you oblige me with a couple of seats?” 
The business manager answered, “With pleasure, 
my dear.” 

They sat down in the stalls, close to the red 
glow of a gas-stove, and listened to a dispirited 
soprano who was supposed to be singing “The 
Holy City.” She was not really singing “The 
Holy City”; from beginning to end she articu- 
lated not a word save “Jerusalem.” She simply 
kept her mouth ajar and wailed the air. There 
were only about twenty people in the rows of 
crimson velvet seats, and most of these were Kiss - 
and-Tell people. The others were very young 
men, in caps, who bore the sacred music on Sun- 
day evening for the sake of an advance view of 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 191 


the girls who were to perform on Monday. The 
very young men watched the arrivals with much 
interest, and if the ladies in the stalls were un- 
attractive, it was said in Blithepoint on Sunday 
night that “the piece on the pier to-morrow was 
no good.” 

When the dispirited soprano had finished, the 
actresses applauded her warmly, in the hope of 
cheering her up; and the sixpenny balcony rat- 
tled its umbrellas, in the hope of getting a song 
more than it had paid for. Then one of the 
actresses murmured to Miss Lascelles, “How 
badly she holds herself, doesn’t she?” and Miss 
Lascelles presented “Miss Daintree.” 

Rosalind soon discovered that nobody was 
sanguine of Little Miss-Kiss-and-Tell being well 
received, and — having forgotten something of 
the world she was revisiting — it surprised her to 
note the light-heartedness of the professionals, 
who tottered on the brink of disaster. They 
were all pitiably poor, they were likely to fall out 
of employment at the worst time of year; but 
they said gaily, “Oh well, let’s hope for the best! 
It may be all right at night. It’s no use looking 
on the black side of things.” And most of them 
were totally dependent on their salaries, though 
that was not the belief of the very young men 
who endured “The Holy City.” 


192 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 


Only Miss Jinman, a large, elderly lady who 
spoke in a bass voice, was pessimistic. Years 
ago she had sung in parts of dignity, and hec- 
tored first-rate touring companies; to-day she 
was engaged for an amorous old woman in Turk- 
ish trousers, whom the low comedian was to pelt 
with insults as often as she came on the stage. 

“I don’t think the piece will last a month,” 
she said to Rosalind, in her lugubrious bass. 
“It isn’t amusing at all. Vulgar, very vulgar! 
I may be too critical, I’m used to such high-class 
things, as you know — my notices as ‘Buttercup’ 
were immense — but I call it a ‘rotter.’ I see a 
frost, a killing frost, my dear. I keep my opin- 
ion to myself” — she was disseminating it with 
gusto — “I don’t want to give the others the 
hump, but I see us all out of a shop till the 
spring comes.” 

“Oh, you’re always croaking, Miss Jinman,” 
snapped a black-eyed girl with golden hair. 
“Give us a chance, do!” 

“A chance?” returned Miss Jinman heavily. 
“Chit, you have no chance. It’s only kindness 
to tell you so.” 

“Thanks awf’ly,” said the girl. She had not 
been long on the stage. Her married sister kept 
“Dining Rooms” in Holloway, and less than a 
year ago the “artiste” had served as waitress 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 193 


there and been ordered to “ ’Urry up with that 
there yorkshire-pudden.” 

“You will never do any better than you’re 
doing,” affirmed Miss Jinman. “And I could 
say as much to others present if I hadn’t too much 
consideration for their feelings. To more than 
one,” she added significantly. “Look at 7ne y 
with all my experience ! And I am clever, and I 
can sing; my notices as ‘Buttercup’ were im- 
mense. And where am I now? On a pier with 
amateurs — amateurs and novices. I don’t know 
what the profession is coming to — it’s a very 
different thing to what it was when I was in my 
prime.” 

“I expect most things have woke up a bit since 
then,” said the golden-haired brunette; “the 
bringing in of railways must have made such a 
difference.” 

“Small-part people were taught to respect the 
principals,” said Miss Jinman sternly. “Minxes 
kept their places.” 

“It’s a pity you couldn’t keep yours!” said 
the dark one with the golden locks. But har- 
mony was restored during the next selection by 
the band. 

There was a little sleet blowing when the audi- 
ence straggled homeward. The lights of the 
Belle Vue Hotel were not put out yet, and care- 


194 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 

lessly, Miss Jinman observed that the people in- 
side must be warmer than she was. Rosalind 
took the hint. It is only in the lowest ranks of 
the theatrical profession that the ladies refresh 
themselves in bars ; a second-rate provincial 
actress would wither the person who invited her; 
hut Miss Jinman and Miss Lascelles had adapted 
their manners to their company, and it was a 
very humble company indeed. So they went 
into the Lounge, and sat down. 

Another professional lady came in, and in- 
quired generously, “Are you drinking, girls?” 

Miss Lascelles said, “Yes, we’ve got port 
wine.” 

“Serve you right!” said the other lady, with 
a pretty wit. 

Though she was on the high road to Prague, 
Lady Darlington was relieved to see that the 
clock pointed to five minutes to ten. When the 
Lounge closed, the party shook hands with her 
heartily, and hoped they would meet her again 
in the morning. Distressingly ill-bred of them 
to drink port in a smoky bar — not at all the sort 
of thing I can ask you to condone. But some 
of the sirens who had lolled in velvet fauteuils 
were financing on coppers until the first week’s 
treasury was paid, and tea-and-hread-and-butter 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 195 


was all they had had to support their internal 
economies during the day. How amused the 
very young men in the stalls would be at my sim- 
plicity in believing it! 


CHAPTER XIV 


Since the last chapter went away to be type- 
written I, myself, have been in the theatre on 
Blithepoint Pier. A pantomime was being per- 
formed. The seat I was in yielded me a view! 
of more than I had paid to look at; I could see 
the prompt-entrance, which is the place where 
they signal for the sunset and the moonbeams 
and where the players come to peep at the doings 
on the stage. Last night a young woman came 
there. She wore a brief, blue skirt, and a silver 
crown, and for the nonce an unlovely wrap hung 
over her whitened back and bosom, since you may 
get rheumatism in the prompt-entrance, as well 
as moonbeams. Before the footlights, two comic 
men were bawling a duet; I knew they were 
comic because they had made their faces so re- 
pulsive; and the spirit moving her, the woman 
broke into lazy dance steps to the refrain. In 
the glare and the distance she was pretty. As 
I watched, I felt instinctively for the hand of 
Rosalind; I knew the craving that was in her 
blood, and turned to meet her gaze. If she had 

196 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 197 

been there, I think she would have liked me. I 
said, “Those who saw that would understand 
Rosalind ; the tawdry figure dancing in the 
draught says everything !” That was why I 
brought the picture at home, to show it to you' 
. . . but somehow, all at once, I doubt whether 
you will understand any better than you did. 

However I beg you to believe that on the 
morrow Rosalind accompanied Tattie Lascelles 
to a rehearsal with infinite zest. She had no 
right to accompany her, but a discussion was in 
progress when they arrived, and she passed un- 
challenged. Mr. Omee, the local manager, who 
stood in the pit, was talking to Mr. Quisby, the 
travelling manager, who stood on the stage. It 
appeared that owing to the pressure of Christ- 
mas traffic, the railway company had failed to 
despatch the scenery. 

“Well, but who has been to the station? What 
do they say?” 

“I tell you the fools at this end don’t know 
anything about it.” 

“What the bleak Helvellyn’s the good of 
bringing the piece without any scenery?” 

“Isn’t there any scenery in your theatre?” 

“I’ve told you what cloth you can have, my 
boy. That’s the best we can do.” 

“It’s no use offering us Hyde Park Corner 


198 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 

when we want a blooming mosque! . . . Well, 
let’s have a look at it!” 

Mr. Omee shouted for “Bates.” 

There was a lull, and then from unseen heights 
a voice announced that Bates had just “stepped 
outside.” 

Mr. Omee ramped in the pit. 

The shouts for “Bates” were resumed — the 
rafters rang with the name of “Bates” — and 
after some minutes a discomfited working man 
slouched on to the stage, to be received with a 
volley of abuse. He was understood to retort 
that he was unable to be in two places at once, 
and that parties who expected it might find some 
one else to do the work, that was the straight tip. 
Those nearest to him also learnt that he held a 
poor opinion of the job at its blessed best. 

“Let’s have that Hyde Park cloth,” com- 
manded Mr. Omee. “Come on, look alive, man 
— hurry up !” 

“What I want to know,” grunted the low co- 
median, “is ’ow I’m to get that wheeze of mine 
into that song. That’s what’s bothering me.” 

“What song?” inquired Miss Lascelles. 

“What song! Why, ‘All the Winners.’ I 
was going to say that the Blithepoint football 
team was ‘all the winners’ in the match on Sat- 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 199 


urday, and now I’m told that Sweetbay beat ’em. 
My luck again! That queers my wheeze.” 

“Why not say,” suggested Rosalind, “that the 
next time Sweetbay is rash enough to play them, 
Blithepoint will be all the winners?” 

“Wot ho!” said the low comedian, brightening. 
He added promptly, “Of course that’s what I 
was thinking of doing. But I must see if I can 
get all that cackle into the tune. Where’s the 
conductor of the blooming band?” 

Presently the cloth was displayed. It was 
no faithful representation of Hyde Park Corner, 
but it was still less like a mosque, and the play- 
ers stood about, and sneered, and muttered con- 
temptuous criticisms. Miss Jinman said that 
in all her experience she had never known such 
disgraceful mismanagement before. She was to 
figure in her Turkish trousers in this scene, and 
she pointed morosely to the omnibuses painted 
outside the hospital. 

“Clear the stage, please!” cried Mr. Quisby. 
“We’ll just run through Miss Vavasour’s scenes. 
Come on, Miss Vavasour — we don’t want to be 
here all day!” He told her this indignantly, as 
if the delay in lowering the cloth were directly 
attributable to her. She was the girl who had 
been suddenly promoted to the leading part. 

The manager of the theatre lounged from the 


200 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 

pit into the stalls, where Rosalind sat now too. 
He chewed his cigar, and there was gloom on his 
face. This should have been a week of large re- 
ceipts, but the outlook was unpromising. 

Miss Vavasour was rendered additionally 
nervous by the fact that she had not had time to 
learn the lines. She advanced constrainedly, and 
said in a timid voice — 

“ ‘We are alone at last. Oh rapture!’ ” 

“Speak up, my dear!” said Mr. Quisby. 
“Say it as if you meant it. ‘Rapture’! Do a 
bit of a caper there, be fetching!” 

“ ‘We are alone at last,’ ” repeated Miss 
Vavasour, with a mechanical jump. “ ‘Oh rap- 
ture!’ ” 

“Oh rats!” said the manager of the theatre. 
He turned to Rosalind — “Can she sing?” he 
asked. 

“She sings even better than she acts,” said 
Rosalind innocently. 

“Good Lord!” groaned the manager. “Well, 
w T hat are they waiting for now?” 

It was the cue for an embrace, and Miss 
Vavasour was hanging forward to be clasped in 
the Tenor’s arms, but the Tenor had a request to 
make. 

“Mr. Quisby,” he said, disregarding her, “I 
think it would be better if somebody read my 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 201 


part. I don’t know how I shall get through to- 
night as it is — my cold is so severe.” 

“Oh, my sufferings!” muttered the manager 
of the theatre. “Now the Tenor’s got a cold! 
This is going to be a great draw, this show is.” 

“Don’t you think you could just walk through 
the business , my boy?” Mr. Quisby asked. 
“The girl’s a bit uneasy in the love scenes — she’ll 
be all over the shop to-night if she don’t know 
what you’re going to do.” 

“I am really very ill,” insisted the Tenor 
feebly; “I’m not fit to rehearse, I ought to be in 
bed.” 

“Oh, all right then,” answered Mr. Quisby. 
He beckoned to the prompter. “Here, read the 
lines — give Miss Vavasour her cues. Do get on, 
Miss Vavasour, we shall be in the theatre till 
Doomsday if you don’t wake up ! ‘We are alone 
at last’ — go back, please.” 

“‘We are alone at last. Oh rapture!”’ fal- 
tered Miss Vavasour for the third time, with the 
mechanical jump. 

“That’s marked ‘Kiss/ ” said the prompter. 
He was a slovenly man with a dirty face. 

“I know it is,” snapped Miss Vavasour. “Do 
let’s get to the next line!” 

“I was ’elping yer,” said the prompter, ag- 


202 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 


grieved. “If yer don’t want no ’elp, sye so!” 
He read, “ ‘My Prize! My Pearlikins!’ ” 

“ ‘Sometimes,’ ” continued Miss Vavasour, 
simulating maiden modesty, “ ‘I wonder if it’s 
all a dream. Why do you love me? You might 
have married Delicia, who has millions — I am 
a very poor girl.’ ” 

“You’re a very poor actress too,” said Mr. 
Omee under his breath. 

“ ‘Why do I love yer, sweetheart?’ ” mumbled 
the prompter. “ ‘Your question reminds me of 
what the apple-blossom said to the moon.’ ” 

“Band cue!” shouted Mr. Quisby. “Have 
you got that, there in the orchestra? — ‘The Ap- 
ple-blossom and the Moon,’ song! Go on, 
Mr. — er — Song over. Get on with the lines.” 

“Excuse me!” exclaimed the Tenor, reappear- 
ing. “That’s a cue for the limelight. I don’t 
think it has been marked; I didn’t get it at the 
dress rehearsal.” 

“Oh yes, it is marked,” declared the prompter; 
“I marked it.” He referred resentfully to the 
typescript. “‘Moonlight’! There it is, in its 
proper plice.” 

“Its proper place is on me ” said the Tenor. 

“Well, we’ll see it’s all right to-night,” said 
Mr. Quisby, with impatience. “If you’re so ill, 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 20 3 


you had better get home and rest your voice, 
hadn’t you?” 

“I should be only too glad to be at home,” re- 
joined the Tenor stiffly. “I just called attention 
to the matter for the sake of the scene. . . . In- 
terests of the show at heart.” 

“Where do I speak from now, Mr. Quisby?” 
murmured Miss Vavasour. 

“You’re on the balcony, my dear— up left. 
‘And now ta-ta, my Romeo’! Get on with it, 
get on!” 

“One moment. Miss Vavasour!” put in the 
Tenor, coming back. “You mustn’t speak too 
soon, there; I expect an encore! Take your cue 
from me.” 

She nodded helplessly. “ ‘And now ta-ta, my 
Romeo.’ ” 

“ ‘ ’Tis not the nightingale, let’s have a lark!’ ” 
read the prompter. “ ‘Come out to supper! 

‘For thou art as glorious to this night, being o’er my 
’ead ’ ” 

“Come to cues!” said Mr. Quisby, stamping. 

“ ‘When * e bestrides the liezy-piecing clouds. 

And siles upon the bosom of the air/ ” 

gabbled the prompter. 

“‘Bosom of the air’!” bellowed Mr. Quisby. 


204 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 

“Pick up your cues, Miss Vavasour, for Gawd’s 
sake!” 

“I beg your pardon, I didn’t hear it, Mr. 
Quisby,” she stammered. 

“Well, then, listen, my girl! What do you 
suppose we’re here for? ‘Bosom of the air’ — 
caper down centre. Lightly — lightly! Great 
Scot! not like that. You come down like a sack 
o’ coals.” 

“The girl has no experience,” remarked Miss 
Jinman in a deep undertone to all about her. 

“Go back,” shouted Mr. Quisby. “ ‘Bosom of 
the air,’ now again! What have you to say as 
you run down?” 

“I forget,” she whimpered. 

“What’s the line, Mr. — er — you?” 

“I — I’m just looking to see,” said the 
prompter. 

“Looking to see?” yelled Mr. Quisby, furi- 
ously, throwing up his arms. “Upon my life and 
soul it’s maddening! What’s your business, what 
are you engaged as, what is it you’re supposed 
to be? Are you the prompter, or are you not? 

Good is it asking too much of a man 

with the book in his hand to follow the lines? 
I’ve got the whole weight of the production on 
me, I’ve done the work of twenty men, I’m wear- 
ing myself out — and nobody takes the trouble to 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 205 

study a part, or to read the scrip! Ladies and 
gentlemen, the ensanguined rehearsal is dis- 
missed, while the prompter looks for the line !” 

“ ‘Supper? Oh, it will be a merry evening!’ ” 
read the prompter, sulkily. 

“Very well then! Now, Miss Vavasour! let’s 
have it.” 

“I think it’s v-v-very hard on me,” said Miss 
Vavasour, beginning to cry; “I’ve only had the 
p-part three days.” 

“Come, come, do your best! You’ve nothing 
to cry about, I’ve been very patient with you. 
‘Supper? Oh, it will be a merry evening!’ Trip 
down pretty ; speak as you come i” 

“Very hard on me,” she sobbed; “I think it’s 
m-m-most unfeeling!” 

“Bring me a chair!” called Mr. Quisby to no 
one in particular. “Look here, my girl, I’m 
going to see you do it if we have to stop on the 
stage till the doors open. Understand? If I 
keep you here till the curtain rises, I’ll see you 
do it. ‘Bosom of the air’! Now take it up 
sharp.” 

“A bit of all right, keeping the company ’ere 
to see a novice taught her business, I don't 
think!” grumbled the low comedian. 

Miss Vavasour, still sobbing, drooped to where 
the balcony was to be imagined. She sniffed 


£06 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 

violently, and, with an effort at sprightly grace, 
scuttled down the stage again. 

“ ‘Supper? Oh, it will be a merry evening!’ ” 
she quavered. 

“It’ll be a merry evening to-morrow — about 
sixpence in the house!” growled the manager of 
the theatre. He caught Rosalind’s eye. “Are 
the rest of you as good as this, my dear?” he said 
bitterly. 

“Oh yes,” said cheerful Rosalind. “I think 
you’ll like us all!” 

Presently Miss Lascelles wanted to see where 
she was to dress, and with a heartful of memories 
Rosalind explored with her. The pencilled lists 
of names on most of the doors were lengthy, but 
Miss Lascelles was to share a room with no one 
but Miss Vavasour this week, so she was jubilant, 
and had been in no hurry to annex a gas-burner. 
As a rule the ladies scamper on Monday morn- 
ing to secure the best places. 

The room was very comfortably furnished. 

“Oh my!” said Miss Lascelles, enraptured. 

“Oh dear!” said Lady Darlington, disap- 
pointed. “Why, there’s a full length mirror! 
Where’s the single washstand for five people? 
Where’s the one chair, broken? Why, you’ve 
got two rugs! This is a blow, Tattie!” 

Miss Lascelles was doing coon steps before the 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 207 

mirror. “Is the rehearsal hateful enough for 
you?” 

“It’s a dream of delight,” said Rosalind. 

But even she was rather tired of it when it 
finished at five o’clock. 

It was nearly half -past five when they reached 
their lodging, and they were glad to hear from 
Mrs. Cheney that “the kittle was on the bile.” 
At a quarter to seven Miss Lascelles had to hurry 
to the theatre again. 

Rosalind went later. The wind had risen, and 
on the pier she had to fight against it. The 
lamps streaked a heaving sea. The little wooden 
theatre was fairly full, and a few Christmas trip- 
pers in the balcony were comporting themselves 
with less decorum than prevails in Blithepoint as 
a rule. Knowing what she knew of affairs be- 
hind the curtain, Rosalind heard the whistles with 
misgiving. She feared that if the whistlers 
found the entertainment meagre, they were likely 
to create entertainment for themselves. 

However, they listened to the opening chorus 
with polite attention. It was surprising how at- 
tractive many of the chorus ladies had become. 
They represented the seamen of the Battleship 
Deadly Oyster , and wore sailors’ jackets and 
trousers made of silk — or a material that passed 
for it. Some of the seamen also wore paste neck- 


208 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 


laces. They sang that there was “No life so 
jolly as Jack’s/’ and when one watched their 
saucy gambols, and remembered that they were 
actually paid to be there, it looked as if there 
could be no life so jolly as a chorus girl’s. 

As it happened, the first to provoke dissatis- 
faction was the Tenor. He had been refused 
permission to beg indulgence for his cold, but 
resolving that the audience should understand 
that they were not hearing him to advantage, 
he kept laying his hand on his chest, with an 
air of suffering. It made him a depressing fig- 
ure; and when he exclaimed, “ ‘Beware, my tem- 
per’s hot!’ ” a humourist in the balcony cried, 
“How’s your poultice?” 

A man in the pit said “Sh!” but several per- 
sons giggled, and the humourist was stimulated 
to further witticisms. Other humourists began 
to envy him his successes ; as the piece proceeded, 
the interruptions were frequent. Once the low 
comedian attempted a repartee, but it came too 
late in the evening to turn the scale ; the malcon- 
tents had grown spiteful, and as a rejoinder he 
was hissed. His companions stared at one an- 
other haggardly. “Behind,” they stood quak- 
ing, dreading the cues that would recall them to 
the stage. 

At every exit they came off gasping, “The 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 209 


brutes ! the pigs ! Oh, what a wicked house it is !” 

The “house” would have been astonished at the 
emotion displayed, at the “extraordinary sensi- 
tiveness of such people.” To the Stalls there 
were “Just a few noisy young fellows upstairs 
who made jokes.” Indeed, to the Stalls, it 
seemed a long time between the jokes; they wore 
an air of superior detachment, but they were 
secretly amused. Only Rosalind understood. 
Rosalind felt faint. 

Miss Lascelles had been accepted by the Bal- 
cony while they were still good humoured, and 
she was among those who escaped contumely; 
but Miss Jinman’s record availed her little. De- 
risive cheers greeted her every entrance, and a 
lifetime on the boards could not save her from 
the sickness of the senses that attacks a player 
who is being “guyed.” As for Miss Vavasour, 
she trembled as if she had ague when a youth 
mimicked her high notes in her solo, and on her 
bloodless face, while she sang, the make-up stood 
out in patches, like paint on the cheeks of a 
corpse. At the conclusion of the song she clung 
hysterically to Tattie Lascelles in the wings. 

When the end was reached, the audience rose 
murmuring that it was a “silly piece,” and “not 
worth going to” — they “shouldn’t think it would 


£10 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 

be a success !” No one but Rosalind suspected 
the despair that was hidden by the curtain. 

She made her way to the stage-door. Tedious 
as the performance had been, a number of young 
men preceded her, and were assembling to ad- 
dress the chorus ladies when they came out. 
(Thirty were waiting there that night when the 
Chorus came out at last.) An old woman, a 
dresser, was hurrying in with two glasses contain- 
ing whisky from the refreshment room. One of 
the young men asked her jauntily if she would 
take a message for him to “the sixth girl on the 
right.” She said she was in a hurry, and pushed 
the door open. As the door-keeper wasn’t there, 
to be obstructive, Rosalind followed her inside. 

Many of the players were in the flaring pas- 
sage. They had not begun to doff their costumes 
yet; they were lingering in groups, a tinselled, 
nerveless crowd with harassed eyes. Miss 
Vavasour sat crying on a clothes hamper; Miss 
Jinman was waiting weakly for her whisky. As 
it appeared, her gaze fell on the huddled girl; 
“Here, have half of this, child!” she said gently. 
The brunette with golden hair exclaimed, “No, 
no, take yours, Miss Jinman; Queenie can have 
half of mine!” Everybody kept casting anxious 
glances in the direction of the stage, where voices 
could be heard disputing. 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 211 


“Poor old Tat!” murmured Rosalind. 

Now Miss Lascelles, as we know, had had less 
than the majority to unhinge her, but so in- 
fectious was the atmosphere, so easily swayed are 
some of these “extraordinarily sensitive” people 
of the theatre, that as Rosalind’s arm was slipped 
round her waist, she immediately burst into tears, 
and sobbed as if her heart would break. 

“Cheer up,” said Rosalind. “It’ll go all right 
after a few more rehearsals.” 

“I shall be b-better directly,” gulped Miss 
Lascelles. “D-don’t mind me. I’m a fool, but 
I can’t help it; I’m broke up.” 

“We’re all of us broke up,” groaned Miss Jin- 
man. “Did you ever see such a house as it was ? 
In all my experience I never saw anything like 
it! What were they saying as they came out? 
Do you think we shall go on, my dear?” 

“I sha’n’t be kept, anyhow,” wailed Miss 
Vavasour. “Mr. Quisby’s been bullying me as 
if it was all my fault. I shall be out of a shop 
again. And I did hope I was settled till the 
spring — 1 don’t know what I shall do, I’m sure !” 

“Where is he?” inquired Rosalind. 

“That’s him, quarrelling with Mr. Omee 
there,” said Miss Lascelles. “Mr. Omee says 
he won’t let the piece go on to-morrow night.” 

“Not go on?” 


212 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 


“They say he says so,” put in the demi-blonde. 
“That’s all gas — he’ll have to shut the theatre; 
he won’t do that.” 

“If you ask me” said the low comedian, tak- 
ing part in the conference gloomily, “it puts the 
kybosh on the tour. We may as well pack up 
our props, and git. There’s no good health for 
Miss Kiss-and-Tell after to-night’s show.” 

“Git?” demanded Miss Jinman. “Git where? 
I shall have my rights; I’ve got a contract.” 

“Take it to your Uncle’s!” said the low 
comedian. “See what he’ll lend you on it. If 
you ask me, the Syndicate’s a wrong ’un. If w0 
strike it lucky, we’ll get our fares; and if w& 
don’t strike it lucky, we can travel on our lug- 
gage. I see it sticking out a foot.” 

A shudder ran through the players. They 
gathered about him dumbly. 

“We can all claim a fortnight’s salary in lieu 
of notice,” asserted Miss Jinman, rallying. 
“That’s the Law. It’s the Rule of the Profes- 
sion.” 

The company perked up a little. They 
turned their eyes to Miss Jinman. 

“So I’ve been led to believe,” said the low 
comedian. “And in such circs the pros always 
get it, I don’t think! Claim? Oh, we can claim! 
We’ll all get fat claiming, won’t we? You’re 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 213 

better off to claim from the Post Office than from 
a Syndicate — at all events you do know where 
St. Martin’s le Grand is” 

The company collapsed. 

“The long and the short of it,” he continued, 
“is that we’re out with a stumour of a piece. 
Why didn’t it go? Is there anything wrong with 
us? No! a jolly clever crowd, if you ask me. 
The piece has got no stamina” — “stamina” was 
not the word he used — “that’s what’s the mat- 
ter; and that Tyde Park Corner cloth settled 
us. I’ll lay anyone ’ere ten to one that the tour 
dries up, and the Syndicate does a guy. ’Oo’s 
Quisby?” 

“Quisby?” they gasped. “ ‘Who’s Quis- 
by?’ ” . 

“Quisby!” repeated the low comedian em- 
phatically; “I say, ’Oo’s Quisby? I’ll lay any- 
body ’ere ten to one that Quisby calls us to-mor- 
row to say he ain’t responsible. Now? I wish 
all Syndicates were in ’ell.” 

The dispute between the powers had ended, 
and suddenly the prompter’s voice rang through 
the passage. He bawled, “Everybody on the 
stige, please ! Principals and Chorus are wanted 
on the stige!” 

The eyes met for a moment, and then the 
players trooped away, with sinking hearts. The 


214 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 

cold, bare stage was in shadow, for the floats 
and battens had been extinguished, and the only 
light was shed by a single burner of the T-piece. 
By the T-piece Mr. Quisby stood, his back to 
the dark emptiness of the auditorium. The 
prompter was still heard calling in the dis- 
tance : — 

“Everybody on the stige, please! Principals 
and Chorus on the stige!” 

Shivering, they flocked there, some in their 
plumes and spangles, others already in their 
shabby street clothes; many were in a state of 
transition — the faces daubed with grease, the un- 
dergarments and naked necks revealed by hasty 
ulsters. Nobody spoke. When the last comer 
had scrambled to the crowd, all looked at Mr. 
Quisby. The suspense that held them mute was 
pitiable. 

Outside, the thirty young men had collected 
to accost the merry chorus girls. 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Mr. Quisby, 
“there will be no performance to-morrow.” He 
forced a hearty air. “I’m going to talk to you 
like a pal. Things look a bit rocky, but we must 
hope for the best. I won’t disguise from you 
that there may be no tour. Now you all know 
as much as I do — there may be no tour. Whether 
there is or not, I’ve no doubt we shall all get 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 215 

what’s due to us, I hope we shall, I’m sure — 
God knows I can’t afford to lose what they owe 
me!” He made a slight pause, to let this sink, 
“As soon as I hear from London what the Man- 
agement intends to do, we’ll put our heads 
together again. You worked nobly to-night, 
nobly — one and all! Some of you ought to be 
in London, getting your thirty, and forty quid 
a week! If the thing’s a frost, it won’t be the 
fault of the artists, and I mean to let the Man- 
agement know it!” 

“Rats! What Management?” cried the low 
comedian; “ You left off being manager all of a 
sudden?” 

“Ladies and gentlemen, as you’re all aware, 
the Management is a Syndicate,” Mr. Quisby 
proceeded with difficulty. “If this was my 
crowd, I should talk very different. Do you 
know what I should say if this was my crowd? 
I should say, ‘Between you and I, I’m a bit 
doubtful of the piece — that’s straight! — but I’ve 
got a first-class company of artists, and by 
George I mean to keep ’em!’ I should say, ‘If 
I can’t pull this piece together, then I’ll cast the 
whole blessed crowd for another!’ That’s what 
I should say if I was manager. But I’m not. 
No, I’m one of you. We’re all in the same boat. 
I’m engaged at a salary, like yourselves. Still” 


216 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 


— he smeared the perspiration round his lying 
lips — “still, it’s always darkest before dawn. 
There’s a silver lining to every cloud, and we may 
find as good fish in the sea as ever came out of 
it. Mr. Omee won’t have the piece, and — er — 
you’re all to clear your props out of the theatre 
first thing in the morning; but there are plenty 
of other theatres in the kingdom! We must 
stick together. Where there’s a will, there’s a 
way! We must stick together, like Englishmen 
in the *hour of trouble all the world over, and — 
er, er — be loyal to the show. Ladies and gentle- 
men — Boys and girls! — Mr. Omee is waiting to 
see me in his office. That’s all.” 

“Well, he couldn’t have spoken any fairer,” 
many of the poor, wretched women said to one 
another as they lagged through the forsaken 
streets. 


CHAPTER XV 


Indeed it was Mr. Omee whom the company 
censured — Mr. Omee who had been inhuman 
enough to banish a worthless performance from 
his theatre. “Never,” said Miss Jimnan, “had 
she been so grossly insulted — an artist of experi- 
ence, whose notices as ‘Buttercup’ had been im- 
mense !” Mr. Quisby’s position might be ambig- 
uous, Mr. Quisby might be shirking his responsi- 
bilities; not to put too fine a point upon it, Mr. 
Quisby might be a rogue. But he had paid them 
compliments — and Mr. Omee had shut his doors 
against them ! Mr. Omee was the innocent per- 
son whom they execrated and reviled. 

In the quarter where the “professional apart- 
ments” of Blithepoint are most numerous, the 
landladies looked anxious in the morning. On 
every doorstep in Corporation Road, and half 
way down Alfreton Terrace, the news was known 
by nine o’clock. The lodgers were obliged to 
fence with searching questions at breakfast, and 
many of the houris heating curling-tongs in the 
217 


218 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 


parlour-fire were told that it would “save trouble 
if they got in their dinner themselves.” 

Towards midday the company straggled off 
the pier with baskets and parcels, and the bag- 
gage-man was busy collecting the clothes-ham- 
pers. The boards of Little Miss Kiss-and-Tell 
had gone from the turnstiles, and later, bill-stuck- 
ers came along and splashed up advertisements 
of a stop-gap. The rejected comedians stood 
on the Parade and eyed the work morosely. 
They had hoped the theatre would have to be 
closed. Miss Jinman said, “It was very strange, 
to say the least; she didn’t understand how the 
bills had been printed since last night ! It looked 
to her as if Mr. Omee had been playing them 
false from the start!” 

Then striking proof of Mr. Omee’s perfidy 
was forthcoming, his brutal nature was revealed 
to the full — he offered to make the stranded per- 
formers, by whom he had lost money, a present 
of their fares if they liked to return to their 
homes. “Ah,” said the Chorus, “that shows 
what a dirty trick he served us!” “He has ex- 
posed his hand there” said Miss Jinman — 
“wants to get us out of the town!” 

And Mr. Quisby, who meant to pay them 
nothing, but was endeavouring to make use of 
them in Slocombe-on- the- Swamp the following 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 219 

week before he decamped, told them there was 
a reviving prospect of a three months’ tour. 

So not more than a third of the company 
profited by Mr. Omee’s generosity, and the oth- 
ers warned them that they were being very un- 
wise. 

And by this time the tidings of the disaster 
had spread from Corporation Hoad and Alfre- 
ton Terrace as far as the Grand Hotel, where it 
provided languid amusement, and the plight of 
the players was known to all the visitors on the 
front. Including Conrad. 

But it was not until Friday, December 26 th, 
that one of those incidents which may occur to 
anybody associated him with the matter. 

It had been misty since morning, and towards 
the close of day the fog deepened. When he 
left a house where he had been lunching with a 
man, he took the wrong turning. So far as he 
was able to see at all, he saw that he had blun- 
dered into a neighbourhood that was strange to 
him. A humble neighbourhood, apparently, 
with nothing of a watering-place about it. This 
being Boxing-day, the little shops to which he 
came were shuttered, and owing to the weather, 
few people were abroad. He wandered amid 
dim desertion. Then as he paused, hesitating, 


220 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 


two girls emerged suddenly from the fog, and 
stopped before him. 

“Oh!” exclaimed one of them, “could you tell 
us where Gandy’s the greengrocer’s is?” 

“I am so sorry,” said Conrad. “I can’t. Can 
you direct me to the Parade?” 

She answered absurdly that he was “coming 
away from it,” though he was standing still. 
“It’s over there,” she said; “you go down there, 
and take the first on the left, and keep straight 
on. You can’t miss it.” 

“I have missed it,” demurred Conrad. “Thank 
you for rescuing me. I wish I could direct you 
to Gandy’s the greengrocer’s in return.” 

The other girl had not spoken yet, but now 
she said — 

“Oh, never mind, thanks, we shall find it; they 
say it’s quite near. But it’s too dark to make 
out the names.” 

It was also too dark to make out her features, 
but her voice was delicious, and if the fog didn’t 
flatter her, she was dowered with the eyes that 
he most ardently admired. He was all at once 
sensible of a keen interest in the whereabouts 
of the greengrocer’s. 

“That seems to be a shop at the corner; I’ll 
go over and see what it is!” he said promptly. 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 221 


But it was a general dealer’s, and he came back 
not displeased. 

“Bother! We must find it!” cried the first 
girl. 

“May I come and help you?” he asked. 

“Oh, you can come if you like,” she said; and 
added as a pure concession to formality, “It’s 
awf’ly kind of you.” 

So they all proceeded through the fog. 

“It’s such a nuisance everything being shut 
to-day,” the first girl went on. “That’s why we 
want Gandy’s — they say the Gandies live there, 
and might oblige us. We can ring ’em up.” 

“Fruit?” he inquired. 

“No,” she said; “flowers — violets. We want 
some for the concert to-night. Are you going?” 

“Certainly I am,” said Conrad. “What con- 
cert? I haven’t heard about it.” 

“Oh well, it was only settled this morning. 
We’re giving a concert at the Victoria Hall — 
The Little Miss Kiss-and-Tell company. It’s 
to help us all. Mr. Quisby — our manager — only 
let me know just now. I’m going to sing a 
flower-song, and I want some button-holes to 
throw among the audience; I can’t do the song 
without.” 

“Throw one to me” said Conrad. 

“I will,” she promised. “We ought to get 


$22 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 


some people in, as it’s bank holiday, don’t you 
think so? And if the show ‘goes,’ we can have 
the hall again to-morrow. The tickets are only 
sixpence and a shilling. Did you see us on the 
pier?” 

“No,” he said, “I wasn’t here then — I was just 
too late. How many tickets can you let me 
have ?” 

“Oh, you’ll get them at the door! we haven’t 
got any. You’ll really come, won’t you?” 

“I’ll come if I miss my dinner to get there,” 
he vowed. “Where is Victoria Hall?” 

“It’s — I don’t know the name of the street. 
It’s near the station. Anybody’ll tell you. We 
begin at eight o’clock.” 

This was all very Well, but the Girl of the 
Voice had not spoken again, and he wished she 
would say something. 

“Shall I hear you sing, too?” he asked, look- 
ing across at her. He looked across at her just 
as they approached a lamp-post, and his most 
sanguine hopes were realised. He found her 
adorable. 

“No, I am not in the programme,” said Rosa- 
lind. 

“Here’s a policeman!” cried Miss Lascelles. 
“Gan you tell us where Gandy’s the green-gro> 
cer’s is?” she begged again. 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 223 


The constable did not know, and, official 
though useless, took a long time to say so. More 
intelligently he remarked that it was “Nasty 
weather for Boxing-day,” and Conrad gave him 
a half-crown. The next instant they deciphered 
the name of “Gandy” themselves. 

“What a stupid policeman!” exclaimed Rosa- 
lind, pouting. She pulled the bell, and glanced 
at Conrad. Conrad happened to be glancing at 
her. “Your troubles are nearly over,” she said 
with a smile. 

“I am not impatient,” owned Conrad. 

There were descending footsteps, and a woman 
opened the door. 

He said ingratiatingly, “I am sorry to disturb 
you, but we’re trying to get some flowers. Can 
you let me have some?” 

“Flowers?” said the woman. She had a va- 
cant stare. 

“A few bunches of violets,” Rosalind ex- 
plained. 

“Y-e-s,” murmured the woman. She made a 
long pause. “We ’aven’t got no flowers now/’ 
she said. “N — no. I’m sorry we can’t oblige 
you.” 

“Can you tell us where we can get some?” 
p$*t in Miss Lascelles sharply. 

“No no, I couldn’t say, I’m sure,” M- 


224 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 

tered the woman. . . . “There’s Peters opper- 
zite— p’raps they might be able to oblige you.” 

“Do you know where there’s a florist’s?” ques- 
tioned Conrad. 

“Florist’s?” She shook her head. “N — no, 
I can’t say as I do — not one as is likely to be open 
to-day.” 

“Let’s try Peters’!” they said; and scurried 
across the road. 

Here they pulled without effect; the bell 
yielded to them immoderately, but no tinkle 
came. They regarded one another, discour- 
aged. 

“You had better leave us to our fate,” sighed 
Rosalind. 

“Are you dismissing me?” His tone was re- 
proachful. 

“Releasing you,” she said, in her best St. 
James’s manner. 

“My chains are flowers,” said he ornately. 

“I wish you’d give ’em to me!” said Tattie 
Lascelles. 

“You shall have all the flowers you want be- 
fore we part. Ladies, I have an inspiration! 
You know the way to the Parade — let’s go down 
there and get a fly. Then we’ve nothing more to 
do — the responsibility’s the flyman’s. We’ll take 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 229 


him by the hour, and make him drive us about 
Blithepoint till we find a florist’s. Is it carried?” 

“Unanimously!” cried Rosalind. “Right about 
face, quick march!” 

And there was a belated fly dozing by the pier. 
When the man had recovered from his astonish- 
ment at being hailed, he grew quite brisk, and de- 
veloped ideas. He suggested “Mitchell’s,” and 
drove them to a fashionable florist’s in the Mall. 
Nothing could have been happier. Mr. Mitchell 
accepted their apologies, and lit the gas as ami- 
ably as if bank-holidays were of no importance. 
Bountifully he brought forward his best for 
them, and his best was as beauteous as it was ex- 
pensive. 

The warm, perfumed air was agreeable after 
the fog, and Rosalind among the azaleas was di- 
vine. There are few keener pleasures than tak- 
ing out a nice woman, and spending money on 
her ; and it is unnecessary that one should go out 
fond of the woman — it’s so easy to get fond of 
her in the process. “Oh no, really!” she pro- 
tested — and she meant it, for Miss Lascelles was 
already laden — “No, none for me, really!” 

“Just these,” pleaded Conrad; “they’re so 
pretty — it’s a shame to leave them behind.” He 
put them in her hands. 

“I’d like you to see some roses I’ve got here, 


226 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 


sir,” said the proprietor; “it’s not often you can 
see roses like these.” 

“Exquisite,” assented Conrad. . • . “And 
ljust a few roses, won’t you?” 

“Well, one, then,” she said, succumbing. 

“We’ll have some roses,” commanded Conrad 
magnificently. “And those look nice — those lil- 
ies-of-the-v alley. You might give us some lilies- 
of-the-valley, will you?” 

“I’ll have nothing else,” she told him in her 
first undertone. The woman’s first undertone is 
so sweet. 

“A few?” he entreated. “You ought to wear 
lilies-of-the-valley. I wish you were going to 
sing to-night.” 

“Do you?” 

“I shall see you there, sha’n’t I?” 

She nodded. “Yes, I shall be in ‘front/ ” 

“I’m so glad I met you!” 

He thought of taking them in to the hotel to 
tea, but her companion’s toilette had been very 
hasty. 

The fly was as fragrant as a flower show when 
they drove away. She buried her fair face in 
the blossoms he had given to her. It’s permis- 
sible, but it may stir the man’s imagination. It 
stirred Conrad’s; he had rarely wanted a kiss 
from a woman so much. In the scented dusk* 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH ZM 

as their gaze met, her eyes were luminous — like 
stars. 

The fly rattled into Corporation Hoad, and 
he wondered whether she was going to ask him 
if he would “come in.” The fly stopped. 

“Au revoir,” he said. “Victoria Hall? I 
have the name right?” 

“Won’t you come and help us put the flowers 
in water?” she suggested. 

It was of interest to see her without a hat. 
When she took off her coat he was captivated. 
He stayed about ten minutes, and the other girl 
didn’t go out of the room. Both went to the 
door with him when he left. 

“Eight o’clock, then?” he said. 

“Eight o’clock.” 

“Whom shall I ask for if I don’t see you?” 

“ ‘Miss Daintree’ ; but you’re sure to see me.” 

“You won’t be late?” 

“No, I shall be there when it begins. Good- 
bye — and thanks!” 

“Oh!— Good-bye.” 

He saw her smile to him again from the step 
— and the cab turned. 

“What a lark! I say, isn’t he mashed on youT 
Do you like his moustache? Hasn’t he got 
lovely teeth?” exclaimed Tattie in the passage. 

“Y-e-s . . . he’s rather nice,” said Rosalind. 


CHAPTER XVI 


Eight o’clock had just struck when Conrad 
arrived at the slum where he was to spend the 
evening. The exterior of the hall had no san- 
guine air. Four opaque gas globes glimmered 
over a narrow entrance, and, in the obscurity, a 
written appeal affixed by wafers was barely leg- 
ible. He made it out to be : 

“Help the Poor Kiss-and-Tell Girls. 

Stranded in the Town through No Fault of their Own. 

Show your Sympathy by Patronising us.” 

Behind a portiere a disreputable-looking man, 
wearing a queer overcoat, sat at a small table 
with tickets. He asked, “Sixpence, or a shil- 
ling?” and Conrad said, “A shilling,” and the 
man said, “Front row.” 

There was a piano on a shallow platform. In 
lieu of footlights, some pots of ferns had been 
disposed at wide intervals. There was no cur- 
tain; but a screen, behind which giggles were 
audible, turned a corner of the hall into the most 
limited of artists’ rooms. Those artists who 
were not making their toilettes, sat quietly among 
228 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 229 


the audience. Perhaps two hundred chairs were 
ranged across the hall, and about fifty of them 
were occupied. One of them was occupied by 
Rosalind. 

“Good-evening,” she said. 

“Good-evening,” said Conrad. “May I sit 
down?” 

“These are the shilling ones,” said she. “Oh, 
of course, if you have! I’m afraid we’re leading 
you into awful extravagance? ... It isn’t very 
full?” 

“No, I’m sorry. I wish I could have sent 
some people. Have you got another concert to- 
morrow?” 

“They’re talking about it — they’ve got the hall 
very cheap.” 

“I might take some tickets, and see what I 
can do with them. I suppose that w T ould be a 
good plan, wouldn’t it?” 

“Perhaps,” said Rosalind, doubtfully. 

“Why 'perhaps’? I thought it was to help 
you all?” 

“Yes,” she answered. “Oh, it’s meant to.” 

“There’s a reservation in your manner,” he 
said, “that — What’s the use of our being such 
old friends if you don’t confide in me?” 

“Ah, I didn’t think of that,” she laughed. 
“Well, did you see the man with a coat?” 


230 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 


“I saw him with aversion.” 

“I thought it would please you! That’s the 
manager, Mr. Quisby.” 

“Your manager, do you mean?” 

“I’m telling you — the manager of the com- 
pany that came to grief. The girls are supposed 
to have got this up for themselves ; but you may 
have noticed that you paid your shilling to Mr. 
Quisby.” 

“A — ah!” said Conrad. “There seems a weak 
spot in the business arrangements. Well, what 
do you propose?” 

A youth in a very shabby tweed suit came on 
to the platform. He sat down at the piano, and 
rattled the introduction to the well-known music- 
hall song entitled My Little Baby Boy. On 
bounced the golden-haired brunette. She wore 
a skirt to the knees, and had made up her face 
as if for the glare of a theatre. Her appear- 
ance lowered the concert to the level of a penny 
gaff. Several women of the shop-keeping class, 
hitherto sympathetic, murmured “Ohl” and 
tightened their mouths. 

“Isn’t the costume a mistake?” whispered 
Conrad. 

“Do you think so? How would you have 
dressed her?” 

“Well,” said Conrad, “a long frock.” 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 231 


“Mm, What sort of frock?” 

“Well, I should have made her look quiet, and 
Very — er ” 

“Respectable. I know! . . . Go on.” 

“I should have said, ‘Be pale, and pathetic!’ ” 
“That’s right, I wanted them to! But they’ve 
all got themselves up wrong, except my friend 
Miss Lascelles. Sh!” 

The vocalist’s blackened eyelids drooped to 
the paper that she held: — 

** ‘Some folks want power and riches, and really will not 
be denied. 

And when they’ve accomplished their object, they are 
very far from satisfied; 

A fig for your wealth and your power, for riches I care 
not a jot; 

Contented am I — yes ! and happy — I’m quite satisfied 
with my lot.’ ” 

“Inappropriate,” said Rosalind under her 
breath, “isn’t it?” 

The vocalist looked up again, for now she 
knew the words : — 

“ T’m not tired of England, I’ve no wish to roam. 

There’s a little six-roomed house that’s my home, sweet 
home; 

My house is my castle — who is my pride and joy? 

Why! his Royal Highness the King of the Castle, my 
little baby boy.’ ” 


232 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 

When she had shrilled the chorus times without 
number she withdrew, and Conrad said, 

“Can’t we go and sit further back where we 
can talk? Look at all those chairs over there.” 

“If you like. What do you think of her?” 

“She can’t sing.” 

“Oh, that’s a detail. But she doesn’t work the 
song.” 

“How do you mean?” 

“Didn’t you feel what she ought to do? Well, 
of course you wouldn’t. ‘His Boyal Highness 
the King’ line ought to bring the house down. 
Wouldn’t I make it go !” 

“Show me,” he begged. “There’s nobody 
looking.” 

So in the corner that they had found, she 
hummed the bars, and showed him. 

“Oh, aren’t you clever!” he exclaimed. “What 
a pretty voice you have! Perhaps you’re — er— * 
fond of babies?” 

“If you mean ‘have I got any children?’ no, 
I haven’t. That was an actress, not a mother. 
I’ve no ring on — did you think I was married?” 

“Well, you looked so very devoted, I won- 
dered for a moment.” 

“Are you?' '* 

“Suddenly,” said Conrad, gazing at her. 

“ ‘Suddenly’ — what?” 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 233 

“Devoted.” 

“I meant ‘married/ ” she explained. 

“I?” he said. “Good heavens!” 

“Don’t be so astonished! — such a thing has 
happened to men.” 

“Yes, but I’m not a marrying man.” 

“Most men say they aren’t marrying men till 
they say, ‘Will you marry me?’ It’s a pity they 
change their mind so often.” 

“I have pitied them myself.” 

“I was thinking of the girls,” she said. “A 
man begins to be in love much sooner than a 
woman, but he finishes much sooner too.” 

“Well, that’s why marriage was invented,” said 
Conrad. “The man brings the fervour, and the 
woman brings the faithfulness. You can’t com- 
bine better qualities.” 

“Yes, and what about his fervour afterwards? 
He wants to go and be in love all over again. 
Haven’t I seen? In this profession, travelling 
about, a girl often meets a good fellow; I don’t 
say he’s often rich — the ones who mean well are 
generally hard up. Perhaps he’s a clerk, or 
something, in the town. He’s taken with her 
from the front, and gets to know her. Then 
he waits for her at the stage door every evening, 
and sees her home, and makes her talk ‘shop’ — 
he always makes her talk ‘shop,’ that’s the fas- 


234 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 


cination to him. After she goes away, he writes 
to her, and by-and-bye perhaps they marry. They 
do sometimes. Of course she’s to leave the 
stage; he generally asks for that — the kind of 
man I’m talking about. Well, what’s the re- 
sult?” 

“She’s sorry she gave it up.” 

“No, she isn’t. There are exceptions — don’t 
I know it! — but in most cases she’s only too 
thankful to give it up. There’s no glamour about 
it for the girl, she has lived all that out ; the ‘lit- 
tle six-roomed house and home sweet home’ is the 
only ambition she has left. It’s the man who 
finds the marriage dull. He was in love with 
being in love with an actress. He liked waiting 
for that smile over the footlights — about the mid- 
dle of the first verse of her solo; it flattered him 
to know he was the one man in all the audience 
who was going to talk to her directly. When 
they’re married she’s just an ordinary girl — like 
Miss Smith, and Miss Brown, and the other girls 
he knew. The fairy has lost her wings. She’s 
a very good little wife perhaps, but just a drab; 
little mortal. He says, ‘How romantic it used 
to be when she was a fairy!’ — and goes fairy- 
catching outside another stage-door.” 

“Poor little mortal!” 

“Men want romances. When you find them 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 235 

out, the most unlikely men are romantic; but 
when you find them out, nine hundred and ninety 
women in a thousand are domesticated.” 

“Are you?' ' 

“There are the other ten,” laughed Rosalind. 
. . . “And I’m not talking of society women — 
of course I don’t know anything about them ; I’m 
talking of every-day women, and us. Look at 
my friend! I suppose you’d take her for a bo- 
hemian through and through? She has had to 
earn her living in the profession since she was 
sixteen, and she’s slangy, and she’d shock your 
sort of woman out of her wits. Marriage is the 
last thing she thinks of now. But let a man she 
liked come along! She’d marry him on two 
pounds a week, and go through fire and water 
for him, and thank heaven for the joy of hangj- 
ing up the washing in her own back yard.” 

Miss Lascelles, with a hint of coon steps, was 
singing — 

“ ‘What is the use of loving a girl 

When you know she don’t want yer to V” 

“I shouldn’t have thought it,” said Conrad. 
“She doesn’t suggest domesticity in back yards.” 

“Does she suggest a boarding-school for 
young ladies?” 

His eyebrows asked a question. 


236 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 


“There was a time when Tattie was among 
little girls who walked two and two in Kensing- 
ton.” 

“Really? Do you know that hurts, rather? 
I’m sorry.” 

“I’m sorry,” sighed Rosalind. “But her 
heart’s sweet,” she added; “it’s only the bloom 
that has gone.” She smiled. “Clap your 
hands! She’s my pal — you’ve got to applaud 
her.” 

“She’s very good,” he said, applauding. “I 
thought she was going to do a flower-song? But 
I like that one. Isn’t it pretty? I like the way 
it goes.” 

“Yes, rag-time — all against the beat. Don’t 
hum it out of tune!” she said plaintively. “She’s 
going to do the flower song next. By-the-bye, 
I may have to introduce you to some of the girls. 
What shall I call you?” 

“My name ’’ Conrad answered deferentially, 
“is ‘Warrener.’ ” 

She bent her head: “Thank you,” said Lady 
Darlington. 

When the concert was over he walked with her 
as far as Mrs. Cheney’s. Tattie of course was 
with them. At the foot of the steps Tattie shook 
hands with him and went indoors, and he re- 
mained a minute saying ‘good-night’ to Rosalind. 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 237 

The other girl might well have heard all they 
said, but the minute had charm to him because 
the other girl had left them. It implied some- 
thing. And underneath, to both these shuttle- 
cocks of temperament, there was another charm, 
not defined yet — to be savoured in the first mo- 
ments of solitude — the charm of recapturing a 
mood of years ago. At a doorstep, late: “You 
look tired ?” “Oh, it’s nothing.” A pause. “I 
shall see you to-morrow?” “Yes, come in to tea.” 
A whiff of the fragrance of his youth, a touch 
of the sentimentality of her girlhood, idealised 
Corporation Road as they parted in the fog. 

“I wish it were to-morrow ! . . . Good-night.” 

“Do you? . . . Good-night.” 

The old tune was not classical, but it was 
pretty. 


CHAPTER XVII 


“I want something substantial,” said Conrad 
gravely, shaking his head. “For the follow, say 
a Chateaubriand.” 

Two days had passed, and in his mind a new 
and disquieting thought had risen — the thought 
that Rosalind couldn’t pay for enough to eat. 

Truly she was paying for a great deal to eat, 
conjuring steaks and puddings on to the tables 
of a dozen lodgings, and inventing strange 
stories to account for her having half-sovereigns 
to lend. But Conrad could not know that. He 
only knew that the necessities of the Kiss- and- 
Tell company w r ere more urgent than he had un- 
derstood; and he felt very sorry for all the girls, 
but his heart bled for Lady Bountiful. 

“A Chateaubriand,” he repeated firmly. It 
was nourishing. “And pommes souffiees. . . . 
No? Well, I’ll leave the potatoes to you. With 
a chestnut puree, eh? And let us have nice 
sweets. Don’t give me the table d’hote sweets 
— special! An omelette au Kirsch, with lots of 
flames, to begin with. What about peaches? . . . 

238 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 239 

Well, send for the best fruit you can get — you’ve 
plenty of time. Where’s the wine-list? A quar- 
ter to two. That table in the corner — for three 
persons.” 

There is one place in Blithepoint where the 
chef can cook, though he shirks pommes souf- 
flees. You go downstairs to it — unless you 
choose the hotel entrance — and it was in the res- 
taurant downstairs that Conrad ordered the 
luncheon on Monday. He meant to say things 
at luncheon. But when Bosalind and Tattie ar- 
rived, there was a bomb-shell with the hors 
d’oeuvres. 

“Mr. Quisby has bolted!” they cried, taking 
their seats. 

“Bolted?” he echoed. “How do you know?” 

“Queenie Vavasour and Miss Jinman have 
been to his rooms this morning. They went to 
tell him they must have some money. He has 
gone, he w T ent last night — w 7 ith our concert six- 
pences.” 

“I say!” exclaimed Conrad. He was by this 
time almost a member of the company. “What 
are we all going to do?” 

“It’s a nice fix,” continued Rosalind, reproach- 
fully. “I told you this would happen. I never 
thought he’d be able to take us on anywhere else 
—never for a moment. Didn’t I warn you?” 


240 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 

“You did,” said Conrad. “Oh! I admit it. 

Will you have a sardine, or ? Miss Lascelles, 

let me give you some of the pretty ones with the 
red and yellow.” 

“I told you all along,” repeated Rosalind, 
“that girls could do nothing for themselves in a 
matter like that — that it needed a man to take 
it up. Now, didn’t I say so?” 

“You said so several times. But you didn’t 
suggest what I should do. I couldn’t menace 
him with a revolver.” 

“Men are so lazy,” she smiled. 

“You may smile,” said Conrad reprovingly, 
“but it’s very serious for us! We are all out of 
an engagement.” 

“Yes,” she agreed. “And goodness only 
knows when you’ll get one again!” 

“Ah, that’s jealousy of my talent! Miss 
Lascelles, tell her I can’t be out of an engage- 
ment long.” 

“With all his experience?” cried Tattie. “His 
notices as ‘Buttercup’ were immense!” 

“Poor Miss Jinman!” sighed Rosalind; “I’m 
sorry for that old woman.” She nodded at Con- 
rad. “You should see her this morning!” 

“I want to see her,” he declared, “or rather, I 
want one of you to see her for me. You know 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH Ml 


we*ve all got to stick together in this thing, 
and 55 

“And ‘be loyal to the show’!” said Tattie. 

“No, but joking aside, I want you girls to help 
me straighten things out. I was going to talk 
to you about it anyhow. Now tell me — what do 
they all want?” 

“I suppose they all want a shop,” Tattie an- 
swered. 

“I can’t give them a ‘shop’ — I’m not in the 
business — but I might send them home with a 
few of the Best in their pockets. How would 
that do?” 

They lifted their heads, and looked at him; 
and the waiter put the soup on the table. 

“Did you mean it?” murmured Rosalind, when 
the waiter had turned his back. 

“Well, of course. Now this looks very good; 
let’s enjoy our lunch! We seem to be getting 
on a bit, so we needn’t worry. Don’t you think 
you ought to take your jacket off — you’ll be cold 
when you go out?” 

“No, I’ve loosened it,” she said. “But — er — • 
do you know, I’d rather you didn’t do that? I 
■ — I think they could all manage without.” 

“Now, why interfere?” said Conrad peev- 
ishly. “This is my department. You have 
bungled hopelessly yourself. By your own show- 


242 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 

ing you distrusted the man — and you let him es- 
cape, instead of patrolling his doorstep. Then, 
when I bring intelligence to bear on the matter 
and we’re all happy, you must cut in and throw 
cold water on the scheme! Take your soup and 
be good.” 

“Isn’t it nice?” said Tattie. 

“Now that’s a sensible remark. I turn to you 
— we won’t be interfered with. Suppose you 
help me, Miss Lascelles? Will you be Santa 
Claus in Corporation Road for me?” 

“Oh,” she faltered. “You had better go your- 
self.” 

“I?” gasped Conrad; “I wouldn’t do it for a 
million — they’d thank me, some people have got 
no tact.” 

“They’d cry over you,” she said, with tears in 
her own voice. “You don’t know what it is 
you’re doing. They aren’t used to men who 
— You’re a trump!” 

“Oh, pickles,” he said. “Where’s that waiter? 
I say, we’re all being awfully solemn ; I thought 
this was going to be a jolly party? Miss Dain- 
tree — — ” 

“Mr. Warrener?” 

“Please talk.” 

“I’m going to talk later on,” she said. “I’m 
going to talk like a mother to you.” 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 243 

“ Won’t you talk like yourself in the mean- 
while? I don’t want anything better.” 

Then she talked like herself; and the plates 
were changed, and the hour was pleasurable. It 
was a very uncommon hour, because her friend 
was so nice. The pretty girl’s friend is nearly 
always an infliction, and makes mischief after- 
wards because she hasn’t been sufficiently ad- 
mired. It was such a pleasurable hour that Con- 
rad knew a pang of regret in reflecting that there 
would be few more like it — Rosalind, no doubt, 
would flee from Blithepoint as soon as the other 
women. Would he meet her again? Of course 
she would drift into another company; meet an- 
other man in another town! Damn! 

“I’m going to miss that girl,” he mused, “and 
know she’s flirting with somebody else while I’m 
remembering her!” 

“ ‘The world,’ ” he exclaimed, indulging his 
weakness for quotation, “ ‘is a comedy to those 
that think, a tragedy to those who feel!’ ” And 
neither Rosalind nor Tattie found it needful to 
inquire to which category he was assigning him- 
self; there may be sentimental seconds even over 
a Chateaubriand. He added, “Let me fill up that 
glass for you — you’ve nothing there but froth.” 

It was more than half-past three when the 
waiter abased himself in letting them out, and 


244 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 

as they turned along the Parade, Tattie recol- 
lected that she had “promised to be with Miss 
Vavasour at four.” They all stopped for a min- 
ute, and Conrad tried to look as if he didn’t want 
her to go. However, she went, and he and Rosa- 
lind sauntered on without her. 

“What shall we do?” he said. “Shall we go 
and hear the band?” 

“There isn’t one in the afternoon this time of 
year.” 

“Not in the band-stand, but I think there is 
on the pier. The band-stand is retained chiefly 
as a rendezvous, I believe. When he says 
‘Where will you meet me this evening?’ she al- 
ways says ‘Opposite the band-stand.’ ” 

Rosalind replied, “How do you know?” 

“I gather it. Pensive figures watch the clock, 
and look up and down. They all turn hope- 
fully when they hear you, and scowl at you as 
you come in sight. I passed once in the eve- 
ning; I felt myself such a general disappoint- 
ment that I always walk on the other side now.” 

The man at the turnstiles told them that the 
orchestra was playing in the theatre ; and as they 
drew close they heard it, but for some little time 
they could find no way inside. No charge was 
made for admission to the theatre in the after- 
noon, and only the entrance to the balcony was 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 215 


open. They saw nobody to guide them. There 
were no other footsteps on the pier; there was 
no sound but the plaintive music that they 
couldn’t reach. They wandered round and 
round the terrace, trying locked doors. 

The tide was out, and the sheen of the smooth 
wet sand was violet under a paling sky. Little 
white waves were hurrying, and in the faded dis- 
tance the star of the lightship gleamed and hid. 

Through the window of an unexpected office 
they spied the girl who sold the stall tickets in 
the evening. “Oh, yes!” she said, and ran out 
to show them where to go. 

Only two or three figures inhabited the roomy 
balcony. Below, the body of the house was soul- 
less, shrouded in white wrappers. Faint day- 
light touched the auditorium wanly, but gas jets 
yellowed the faces of the orchestra. In the nar- 
row line of glare amid the emptiness, they played. 

Rosalind and Conrad sat down in the last row, 
and spoke in low voices. He knew that the im- 
pression of the scene was going to linger with 
him after she had gone. 

In a few minutes she whispered, “Let’s go on 
the terrace again,” and they crept to the door. 
“We couldn’t talk in there,” she said. . . . 
“Look here! what you were saying to Tattie: I 


246 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 


want you to tell me straight, I don’t know any- 
thing about you — can you afford to do all that?” 

“Oh yes,” he said, “that’s all right.” 

“But really? Tell me the truth. How well 
off are you?” 

“Oh, well! ... I’m very well off.” 

“Because if you’re going to miss the money, 
there’s another way out, that’s why. I shouldn’t 
forgive myself if I put you in a hole ; I bar that 
sort of thing. Lunch and flowers are all very 
well, but the other’s rather steep.” 

“I sha’n’t miss the money.” 

“Honour bright?” 

“Honour bright.” 

“Oh well, then! It’s awfully good of you. I 
sha’n’t forget it,” she said. “ ‘Warrener’ is 
really your name, isn’t it?” 

“I thought you understood that at the time.” 

“Yes,” she said, “I did. I only wondered for 
a moment — I’m sorry.” 

“Oh, it’s nothing,” he answered. . . . “You 
know what I want you to tell me?” 

“What?” 

“About yourself. What can I do for youV y 

“Oh, you needn’t count me or Tattie. We 
don’t want anything.” 

“That’s all bosh. But you don’t come in with 
the rest — I want to do more than that for you. 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH M7 


Treat me as a pal. You’re on the rocks, and 
I’m not; I’ve been there, and I know what it 
means. Let me give you a hundred to set you 
right.” 

“You want to give me a hundred pounds?” 
She threw back her astonished face at him — she 
was all white throat and eyes. “D’ye like me so 
much?” 

“Damnably!” said Conrad. 

The music had stopped, and now the bands- 
men came hurrying past them. They stood 
looking shoreward, in a pause. On the dusk of 
the Parade the chain of electric globes quivered 
into light. 

“It’s rather rough on you,” she murmured. 
“Isn’t it? I’ve always drawn the line. It’s no 
good.” 

“I didn’t think it was. I shouldn’t have told 
you if you hadn’t asked me. I know; if a man 
cared about you, you’d expect him to want to 
marry you.” 

“Why shouldn’t I?” 

“Oh, why not? Only I’m one of the men who 
aren’t designed for husbands. I could make a 
beautiful lover — while it lasted; a very staunch 
friend — to a man, or a woman — all my life; but 
everybody has his limitations. Women are just 
the same. There are women who are made to 


248 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 

be daughters — they’re perfect as daughters; but 
they should never marry. There are women 
who’re meant for mothers. They should never 
marry — I mean they make very poor wives. Not 
many of us are first-class all round. Still, that’s 
nothing to do with it. I haven’t asked you for 
anything, and I’m not going to. If you had 
been — different, well, for my own sake, I should 
have been very glad! I never played ‘Faust,’ 
though; everybody’s morality begins somewhere 
— it’s just my luck that I’ve got fond of a girl 
who isn't ‘different.’ But there it is! We 
needn’t talk about it. Put that aside, and let me 
help you as if I were your brother. I don’t feel 
like your brother, but you can trust me just 
as much. I quite understand. I’m not vain 
enough to suppose you like me, but I quite un- 
derstand that it would be ‘no use’ if you did.” 

She looked beyond him pensively, and pen- 
sively she hummed : — 

“ ‘What is the use of loving a girl 
If the girl don’t love you % 

What is the use of loving a girl 

When you know she don’t want yer to T ” 

“Don’t do that,” said Conrad. “I’m trying to 
talk to you like a chum. If you sing that song, 
I shall kiss you.” 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 249 


“Well, what do you want me to say?” she 
asked, strolling on. 

“I don’t want you to say anything. You’ll 
get the money for the others in the morning, and 
I’ll send you the hundred during the day.” 

“You’re not to!” she exclaimed. “I don’t 
need it, I swear I don’t. You’re not to send 
Tattie or me a shilling. If you do, I’ll send it 
back,” 

“Why?” 

“Because I don’t need it, that’s why.” 

“No, it isn’t. It’s because you don’t believe 
what I’ve said. My dear girl, I don’t suppose 
that after you leave here, I shall ever see you 
again. When do you go?” 

“We go to-morrow.” 

“You and Tattie? I mean ‘Miss Lascelles’?” 

“Oh, ‘Tattie’ doesn’t hurt. Yes, she’s going 
to stay — we’re going to be together for a little 
while.” 

“Where? Don’t you want me to ask?” 

“London,” she said. 

“Have you got any people there?” 

“No. . . . The only relation that counts is in 
the country now. Now mind! You’re not to 
send anything for us two, or you’ll offend me. 
Whatever you send will go to the others, all of 
it.” 


250 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 

“Have it your own way,” he said quietly. 

They walked once round the terrace without 
speaking. 

“Are you angry?” she asked. 

“You’ve hurt rather. You’ve pitched it back 
at me. I don’t mean the beastly money, but 
the intention. I think you might have trusted 
me. On my honour, I’d have taken no advan- 
tage of it!” 

After another pause, she said: 

“I’m a fool to tell you, but I can’t help it. 
. . . I’m not on the stage any more, I’m not 
hard up; I’m — married.” 

“Married?” 

“I’ve been married five years.” 

“Good Lord!” he said. “Well— Not on the 
stage? What are you doing here then?” 

“I wasn’t acting; I only came down to be in 
it all again. I — ” her smile was wistful — “I was 
‘trying back’; I wanted to feel as I used to feel 
—I was dull.” 

He nodded comprehension: “Oh yes! I’ve 
done a lot of ‘trying back’ myself. . . . Do you 
care for him?” 

She gave the faintest shrug. 

“I wish you weren’t going away,” he sighed. 
“I shall often see you again?” 

“We’re the only people left on the pier,” said 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 251 

Rosalind. Don’t you think we’re having 1 more 
than our twopenn’orth?” 

“I shall g° to town on Wednesday,” he told 
her, as they turned homeward. 

“Shall you?” 

“You haven’t answered what I asked you.” 

“I don’t know. Besides, you’ll soon forget 
that you wanted to.” 

“If I don’t forget?” 

“Well — You may write to me.” 

“Where?” 

“I’ll post you a line before I leave,” she prom- 
ised. “We shall leave as early as we can — as 
soon as we’ve done your business for you; I 
sha’n’t see you before I go. By-the-bye, I don’t 
know if you’re staying at the hotel where we 
lunched? — there’ll be letters for you from the 
company to-morrow, too.” 

“No, I’m at the Grand,” he said. “My Chris- 
tian name is 'Conrad.’ ” 

It seemed a very short distance to Corpora- 
tion Road. It seemed untrue that it was only 
four days since he had stood at the door with her 
for the first time. They went up the steps, and 
she did not turn the knob. 

“Are you coming in?” she murmured. “I 
dare say Tattie is back.” 


252 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 

“Do you know I think I’d rather say ‘au re- 
voir’ to you alone.” 

“Au revoir,” she said. Her hand was formal. 
He was rather chilled. 

“You mean to post me that line?” he ques- 
tioned. 

She nodded. And then in the darkness of the 
doorway, she laughed, and began to hum the song 
that he had warned her not to sing. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


He found the evening very long. He was 
restless. The memory of her kiss was exquisite, 
but it did not make for repose. It seemed to 
him intolerably stupid that he was boring him- 
self in the billiard-room of the Grand when Cor- 
poration Road was so near. Still, she had taken 
leave of him — if he went he might be unwelcome 
to her, she might be disappointing to him. 

Early next morning he received the line she 
had promised. It arrived with letters from the 
company. They were such deeply grateful let- 
ters that they hurt him a little when he read them, 
but he guessed which was hers, and he opened 
that one first. Mixed with the pleasure with 
which he opened it there was the curiosity, even 
the — he would have refused to acknowledge it— 
even the slight touch of apprehension with which 
a man who likes a woman better than he knows 
her always opens her first letter. 

He smiled — he heard her speaking. 

“If you ever write, the address is ‘Miss Tattie 
Lascelles, c/o Madame Hermianee, 42 bis Great 
253 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 

Titchfield Street, W.’ You understand? You 
aren’t to put my name on the outside envelope 
at all. Blithepoint is blessing you. — R. D.” 

If he ever wrote, did she say? By his halidom 
he was going to write immediately! His im- 
pulse was to beg her to dine with him, but prob- 
ably she would find it easier to meet him dur- 
ing the day. Luncheon then. But where? 
The choice of a restaurant bothered him — she 
might be afraid of acquaintances seeing her. He 
bethought himself of the Cafe Anonyme in Soho, 
and entreated her to lunch with him on Thurs- 
day at two o’clock. As a postscript he scrib- 
bled, “You won’t say you can’t, will you? If 
I don’t hear from you, I shall be waiting for you 
at the door.” To enable her to reply, though 
he prayed that no reply would come, he added 
that he should stay at the Carlton. 

He was glad to leave Blithepoint; when the 
woman that one liked there has gone, a place is 
always distressing. In the train it was agree- 
able to reflect that she had read his note by this 
time. Again he imagined her as she read it — 
looking down, looking up, putting it in her 
pocket. The little Cafe Anonyme had been a 
good idea. They would do their best for him 
there, and their soles a la Marguery were un- 
equalled in London. The private rooms, too, 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 255 

were not unhomely, they hit the happy medium 
—there was no riot of red velvet and gilding, nor 
were there rag roses hanging askew in dusty glass 
epergnes. It would have been unappreciative 
— it would have been an insult — to ask Rosa- 
lind to be made love to in a vulgar room. 

He wandered about the Carlton after dinner 
until the last post was delivered, and was re- 
lieved to find there was nothing for him. He 
was sure that if she hadn’t meant to go, she would 
have declined at once. She wouldn’t raise his 
hopes only to dash them to the parquetry as the 
clock was preparing to strike; she wouldn’t be 
thoughtless, unfeeling. Oh no, she wasn’t like 
that! 

And there was no letter on Thursday, either, 
and he sallied to Soho with delight. 

The exterior of the Cafe Anonyme when he 
reached it looked to him a shade less ingenuous 
than it had been, but upstairs all was well. The 
view of the grim houses opposite was screened 
by lace; firelight flashed on the Dutch hearth 
cheerfully, and the little white table, set for tete- 
a-tete, invited confidences. He forced his at- 
tention upon the menu, and lounged back into 
the street. It was what Londoners call a “fine 
day”; the sky was leaden, and the pavements 
were muddy, but there was no rain falling. He 


856 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 

loitered before the restaurant happily, and 
glanced at his watch. At five minutes to two 
expectation began to swell. 

At two o’clock he couldn’t hold back a smile 
— at any instant now her face might irradiate the 
blank. He wondered which way she would 
come, and if she would drive, or walk. He could 
see for some distance, both to right and left, and 
his only regret was that he couldn’t see both 
ways at once. He kept turning his head, fear- 
ful that he might miss a second’s joy. 

There was a leaping moment in which a fig- 
ure suggested her as it hove in sight. The girl 
proved offensively plain, and he was furious with 
her as she passed. Somehow he did not rebound 
from the mistake — it was the first fall in the 
temperature ; the girl had killed his elation. He 
watched now eagerly, but he repressed no smile. 

She was late. Oh, of course she would come, 
but the fish would be spoilt. Rather stupid of 
her! There was nothing more irritating than 
to have a careful luncheon ruined because a 
woman took twenty minutes to tie her veil. A 
melancholy church clock boomed the quarter. 
He began to feel that he was looking a fool, 
traversing these twelve paving stones. He was 
annoyed with her — he should be at no pains to 
conceal it! 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 257 

Constantly hansoms rattled into view, with 
disappointing people in them. There appeared 
to him discouragement in the gaze of the porter 
now, and a pair of loafers outside the public- 
house at the corner were taking interest in him. 
. . . He supposed she would come? Into the 
tension of his mood there entered the first sick 
qualm of doubt. 

And the church clock boomed again. Hope 
was breathing its last in him. Annoyance had 
melted into despair — he longed for her too in- 
tensely to be reproachful if she came. He 
would rejoice over her, he would unbutton her 
gloves, he would say how pretty her frock was, 
and that the chef was delighted to have been 
given more time! 

Five-and- twenty minutes to three ! . . . Well, 
he had better see what he had to pay; it was no 
use hoping any longer. Well, just five min- 
utes! — the last stake. If she weren’t here then, 
she wouldn’t come at all; she wouldn’t expect 
him to wait at the door all day. . . . “At the 
door!” — his heart stopped — the words bore sud- 
denly a new significance. In Blithepoint “at 
the door” might have meant at the door of her 
lodgings. Could it be possible she had misun- 
derstood — had she thought he would be on the 
doorstep in Great Titchfield Street? No! how 


258 CONRAD IN QUEST OE HIS YOUTEI 


could she? she had told him she was married. 
But the address was Tattie’s — yes, she might 
have thought so! Good heavens! had she been 
waiting there for him? Perspiration broke out 
on him. What was he to do? Look at the time ! 
— she had given him up long ago, she had gone 
away! . . . Oh, how could she have thought it? 
he had named the restaurant! . . . Still, it was 
very odd she hadn’t come. He must find her, 
he must explain! But — but — but she was a 
married woman ; he couldn’t go and peal the bell 
and ask for her. Wait a moment, what had she 
said? Was she to stay with Tattie, or was Tat- 
tie to stay with her? . . . Anyhow, Tattie was 
there. Yes, he could go — he could go there and 
ask for Tattie! His head was spinning. What 
the devil had become of all the cabs? 

Two minutes later the porter had blown his 
whistle, and Soho was behind. 

The pace was reckless, but to Conrad’s fevered 
stare even the omnibuses seemed to mock his 
hansom. Alternately he threw bribes and 
objurgations through the trap. Where was 
Great Titchfield Street hidden? Were they 
making a tour of the West End slums? The 
cab jerked to a stoppage at last, and he leapt out, 
and hesitated. Nothing but shops confronted 
him. Had he forgotten the number — wasn’t it 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 259 


“42 bis”? The next moment he saw the name, 
painted over the window — “Madame Hermiance, 
French Laundress.” 

It was very warm inside. Three girls and a 
moist, loosely clothed woman, whose opulent 
bosom was partially concealed, stood at work be- 
hind a long table. It fluttered with aerial frills 
and scraps of pink tissue paper; one of the girls 
was folding things up, and making them look 
pretty. He said, “Bonjour, madame,” and the 
woman said, “Good afternoon, sare.” 

“Miss Lascelles, is she staying here? Is she 
in?” 

“Oh no, sare, she is gone.” 

“Gone?” ejaculated Conrad. 

“She did lodge ’ere,” added the laundress; “I 
let ’er a room upstairs; but she go away — she 
get an engagement. You mean an actress, isn’t 
it?” 

“Yes, yes,” he said, “I know all about the en- 
gagement, but she came back. She came back 
the day before yesterday, didn’t she?” 

“Mais non, monsieur.” She shook her head. 
“She is not come back.” 

“Damn,” he faltered. “Er — but there was a 
letter sent here for her — it must have been de- 
livered yesterday morning. What has become 
of the letter?” 

“Ah, letters?” She banged an iron about a 


260 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 


shirt with double cuffs; perturbed as he was, he 
shuddered to see the havoc she was wreaking. 
“Mees Lascelles ’as writ me a post carte — she 
ask if ’er letters come, I send ’em on. I zink 
she gives up ze theatre, I zink she takes a situa- 
tion wiz a lady of title. Julie!” she called; “zat 
letter zat come yesterday for Mees Lascelles, it 
go to ze post, hein?” 

“Sais pas!” called Julie. She sent a button 
flying off a waistcoat without turning a hair. 

“ Ameliarran !” 

“Yess’m?” 

“Ze letter for Mees Lascelles, where ees it?” 

“There yer are!” replied “Ameliar Ann.” She 
was sewing a red cotton hieroglyphic into a cus- 
tomer’s “tying bow” — near one of the ends. Her 
nod indicated a shelf piled with packages, and 
Conrad perceived his letter lying neglected 
among the washing. 

“Ah,” said Madame Hermiance. “AJors, I 
post it to-night myself.” 

“But this is no trifling matter!” exclaimed 
Conrad, trembling with rage. “Miss Lascelles 
may lose a very large salary through this. 
That’s a business letter — from an impresario. It 
should have been forwarded without delay.” 

“Tiens!” said Madame Hermiance calmly. 
“Julie! pack up ze collars.” 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 261 

He tramped across the shop — and the three 
girls’ heads turned to the left. This much was 
certain: Rosalind had said that she and Tattie 
would be together. Sheer babble, that about 
the situation! If the note reached Tattie at 
once, there was hope yet. He strode back — and 
the three girls’ heads turned to the right. 

“Madame!” 

“Monsieur?” 

“I must apologise for occupying your time, 
but ” 

“Qa ne fait rien,” said the laundress. “Julie! 
pack up ze shirts.” 

“But I want you to do me a kindness — I want 
you to be good enough to send the letter to Miss 
Lascelles now, by a messenger. I suppose it 
won’t take very long?” 

“Mais, monsieur, I ’ave nobody to send.” 

“Well, but my dear lady ” he said, and 

talked to her persuasively of paying for the serv- 
ice, and the hansom that was outside. 

“Eh bien . . . !” said Madame Hermiance. 

Expectancy bubbled in him anew. He would 
scrawl a line explaining what he had suffered, 
beseeching Rosalind to meet him still! Would 
madame have the kindness to provide him with 
an envelope? 

It was provided. 


£62 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 


And a sheet of note-paper? he was abased by 
the trouble he was causing her. 

Alas ! her note-paper was not in the shop, but 
she could offer him a price-list — it was very long, 
and the back was blank. 

This was no moment to finick; the case was 
urgent. He put his foot on a laundry basket, 
and the price-list on his knee; and at the back 
of “Blouses,” “Bodices” and “White petticoats 
from 6d,” he pencilled his appeal. 

When “Ameliarran” had cast off her apron, 
he promised her a sovereign to buy feathers. 
She was given the post-card bearing the address, 
and he let her depart without a question. It 
was evident now that Rosalind had withheld her 
address very deliberately; to ascertain where she 
lived wouldn’t be playing the game ! But would 
the appeal find her at home? She might be 
shopping, visiting, taking an aimless, fatal walk! 
Hope tottered in him again. The girls eyed him 
sympathetically; he was conscious that they 
placed no credence in his narrative of the im- 
presario, and he withdrew to wait where he would 
be less interesting. 

The street was not picturesque; for the scene 
of a lover’s impatience it might be called “pre- 
posterous.” The narrow pavements were so 
busy that he was forced to choose the narrow 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 263 


road; and the road was made narrower by stalls 
of vegetables and tin pots. “Ameliarran,” he 
had heard, might accomplish her mission in half- 
an-hour. He escaped from the marketing, and 
lit a cigar in a grey thoroughfare of comparative 
seclusion. 

“Would she be at home?” When he turned 
back he braced himself to meet the crisis. He 
had consulted his watch frequently, but he had 
not returned before “Ameliarran” might be ex- 
pected. Nevertheless he was too soon. He 
withdrew again, and fumed once more among the 
cabbages and pans. 

The next time he was not too soon. He found 
her in the shop, and she had a note for him. 
From Rosalind, or Tattie? Rosalind! he knew 
the writing. Let the girls gape! he wasn’t going 
outside to read it among the vegetables. He 
opened it with elaborate listlessness. She had 
not protracted his pain while she framed grace- 
ful messages. Her response consisted of eight 
words; but they sufficed: 

“Wait at the laundry. Throwing on my hat.” 

He doubled the girl’s sovereign, and drove 
no bargain with her mistress. But the laundry 
cooped him now. He closed the door, and 
loitered gratefully on the step. Yes, indeed, he 


264, 0ONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 

would wait; in the sweetness of relief he was 
scarcely impatient. A little drizzle was in the 
air, but he did not heed it. The day, and the 
morrow, and a hundred days broke into smiles 
before him. And while he lingered there — on 
the laundress’s step, in the squalid street, under 
the rain — Conrad suddenly awoke to the exhil- 
aration that sparkled in him, was startled by its 
freshness. He realised that fizzing in his pulses 
and his mind was the zest, the buoyancy that he 
had mourned as dead. It was here, alive! He 
reviewed with gusto his emotions of the after- 
noon, the hope, the suspense, the desperation — 
the quiver of rejoicing. It had been good! he 
had lived and felt this afternoon; he would not 
have abated those emotions by a jot! The im- 
moral truth was clear to him, he had made his 
great discovery — that a man is young as often 
as he falls in love. That Rosalind had beauty 
was an irrelevance. Again, to her lover a woman 
is what she makes him feel. Whether she is fair 
or ill-favoured, whether she is worthy or worth- 
less, whether she is formed like Venus, or clasps 
him in arms as thin as penholders, to him she is 
supreme, and while he adores her he is Young. 

The rain was pattering more smartly, and he 
waited under his umbrella. Exultation was in 

HD-83 ' 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH 265 


his heart, her promise was in his pocket, ten years 
of his age had been shed behind the door. And 
at this point it may be discreet of us to take leave 
of Conrad — as Rosalind’s cab comes jingling 
round the corner. 



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